











%<^yy V^^-^^^'^ "v^^\/ % ^.,. 














READING FOR THE MILLION.' 



I 



i BURGESS, STRINGER, & CO'S New Series. No. 11. i 

i i 



THE 



^1 



AMERICAN IN PAEIS, 



DURING THE WINTER. 






A COMPANION TO 



E 

i 



THE AMERICAN IN PARIS DURING THE SUMMER. 



BY 



^ 



JULES j/n I N. 



NEW YORK: 
BURGESS, STRINGER, & CO., 

222 BROADWAY, CORNER OE ANN STREET. 

REDDING AND CO., BOSTON. G. B. ZIEBEE AND CO., PHILADELPHIA.- 

WM, TAYLOR, BALTIMORE. ^BRAVO AND MORGAN, NEW ORLEANS. 



18 44. 

PRICE TWENTY-FIVE CENTS. 



ADVERTISEMENT. - 

THE AMERICAN IN PARIS DURING THE WINTER. 

The immense and extraordinary sale of our recent republication of that 
brilliant work of Jules Janin, " The American in Paris during the Sum- 
mer," a companion to this volume, and No. 1 of our New Series, has con- 
firmed our belief in the existence of a refined and elevated taste among 
the " million" for whom our cheap publications are designed, and increased 
our confidence in the excellent judgment engaged in selecting and prepar- 
ing these and the future numbers. 

Paris in Winter has been by many preferred to its Summer compan- 
ion ; but each volume will be found to have its peculiar excellences, 
while both together present a more vigorous, graphic, and brilliant picture 
of Paris — -of the French nation — of civilization itself — than was ever be- 
fore given in an equal number of pages. The reputation of M. Janin is 
both too elevated and too universally known, to require the eulogy of his 
American publishers. 

We have in rapid preparation the succeeding numbers of this Series, 
which will not fall below those already published, either in value, interest, 
or appearance. 

BURGESS, STRINGER, & CO., 

222 Broadway, corner of Ann st. 

N. B. — Burgess, Stringer, & Co., have just published a Biography 
of John Randolph, of Roanoke, written by the Hon. Lemuel Sawyer, of 
North Carolina, who was for fourteen years a member of Congress during 
the career of that distinguished and eccentric statesman. Price 37 1-2 
cents. 

Also in press, and will shortly be published, a beautiful stereotype edi- 
tion of Crabbe's Tales of the Hall. Price 25 cents. 






THE 



AMERICAN IN PAEIS, 



DURING THE WINTER. 



BY 



JULES JANIN. 



NEW YORK: 
BURGESS, STRINGER, & CO. 

222 BROADWAY, CORNER OF ANN STREET. 

1844. 



v„^ 



f> 



INTRODUCTION. 



I HAVE translated the present work from a very accurate and faithful 
account which we have received from the country of Cooper and Wash- 
ington Irving. Paris is the subject — a theme of endless variety j and if 
you ask me what is the use of such a book, I will ask the beauty who 
reads these pages, " What is the use of a mirror ?" This book is written, 
that Paris may recognise in it, as she puts on the merry smile with which 
she looks at everything, her most beautiful monuments, her richest dwel- 
lings, her daily pleasures, her evening f6tes. And besides this, the origi- 
nal author of this account, a man well versed in the fine arts, a benevolent 
and yet acute observer, and myself his very humble translator, as I was 
formerly the translator of Sterne, are not left to ourselves in this hastily- 
written sketch, this attempt to seize the ever-changing and moveable im- 
age of the Parisian world. More able describers than we, more faithful 
historians, the most eminent London engravers, and a very ingenious Paris 
draftsman, are assisting us to give the faithful reflection that we seek. 
Look, then, favorably upn this book, written beyond the seas, engraved in 
London, translated and drawn in Paris. 

Perhaps it would be well to tell you something of the original writer, 
who has thrown into his travels much of his mirth, wit, and natural be- 
nevolence. In his youth he came to Paris, for the purpose of leaving 
there something of his impetuosity. It was not so easy as he had im- 
agined ; but at last, by dint of zeal and perseverance, nights passed at the 
opera-balls, and days given up to the never-ending Parisian fetes — by dint 
of money lavished at random, as money must be lavished, to return you 
some little variety of interest and pleasure — our young man speedily be- 
came an old one. He arrived in Paris, as giddy-brained as a Parisian, 
ready for the most lively follies ; he left it a grave American, prepared for 
the calm and tranquil honors which his mother country holds in reserve 
for her favored sons. Besides this, we can assure you that our traveller 
was a person of calm observation, strong will, and good sense, and had a 
decided talent for the French language, even in its most beautiful idiom. 
He left at the gate of the Parisian city his national coldness and disdain, 
that he might obey the passionate enthusiasm for lofty things and the fine 
arts with which he was inspired. But why should I lose myself in these 
preliminaries, as though, after reading the following pages, your acquaint- 
ance with our author would not equal my own 1 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

INTRODUCTION 3 

CHAPTER I. 

Entrance into Paris through the Barrier de FEtoile — ^NeuiUy — A Royal Omnibus 
—Louis Philippe— Fieschi— July 13th, 1842 ........... 9 

CHAPTER n. 

A Parisian's Love for Country Pleasures — The Bois de Boulogne — A Fortunate 
Accident — The Fashionable World — The Fortifications — The Octroi — ^The Arc 
de Triomphe de I'Etoile 10 

CHAPTER in. 

The Arc de Triomphe de I'Etoile — Its Progress Arrested — The Emperor's Statue 
in the Place Vendome Thrown Down — Its Reappearance with the Tricolored 
Flag — Funeral of Napoleon — Contrast between the Funerals of Napoleon and 
Charles X.— The Arc de I'Etoile Completed 12 

CHAPTER IV. 

The Champs Elysees — The Luxor — The Hotel des Princes — The Table d'Hote — 
First Night in Paris . 16 

CHAPTER V. 
The Vision — Beautiful Music — Le Prophete . 19 

CHAPTER VI. 

Morning — The Milkwoman — The Grisette — The Bonne — ThePorteress — Parisian 
Scandal — Cafe au Lait 21 

CHAPTER VII. 
The Cafe de Tortoni— Stock-Brokers— Breakfast — The Hour for the Bourse . . 24 

CHAPTER Vni. 

Cafe de Tortoni — Advertisements — A Profitable Bargain . . . . . . . . 26 

CHAPTER IX. 

The Chateau des Tuileries and its Inhabitants — Louis XVI. — The Dutchess d'An- 
gouleme — Madame Elizabeth — The Dauphin — The Directory — The Evil Genius 
of the Tuileries — Napoleon— Louis XVIII. — Flight of Marie Louise — Of Charles 
X. — The Revolution of July — Rechid Pacha 27 



b CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER X. 

The Louvre in an Unfinished State — Victims of July, 1830 — Proposed Umon of 
the Louvre and the Tuileries — Louis Philippe's Love of Comfort — His Disre- 
gard of the Parisians' Clamor 33 

CHAPTER XL 

Garden of the Tuileries — Parisian Ladies — Young Men — Philosophers — The 
Lover — ^Parisian Children — La Petite Provence — Review at the Carrousel — 
Duke de Nemours — Duke d'Aumale 37 

CHAPTER XH. 

The Chamber of Deputies — Mirabeau — His Eloquence — ^Napoleon an Enemy to 
Eloquence — M. Sauzet — French Orators — M. Thiers — M. Guizot .... 41 

CHAPTER Xni. 

The Chamber of Deputies — M. Berryer — ^His Eloquence — M. de Fitz-James — M. 
Dupin — Pere La Chaise — M. DuVong — M. Sauzet — M. Mauguin — M. OdiUon 
Barret — M. de Cormenin — M. Royer Collard — M. Arago — M. de Lamartine — 
Various Politicians — M. Rothschild — M. Lafitte 45 

CHAPTER XIV. 
The Chamber of Deputies — Its Power — The Revolution of July 54 

CHAPTER XV. 

The King of the French — When Duke of Orleans — His Accession to the Throne 
— His Mode of Life — His Accessibility — Louis Philippe the Restorer of Palaces 
— The Reunions at the Tuileries — Louis Philippe as a Father — ^The Queen — 
The Royal Family 55 

CHAPTER XVI. 

The Prince Royal — ^His Acquirements — His Private Character — ^The Prince as a 
Soldier — His Love for Antiquities — Contrast between the King and the Prince 
— The Prince at CoUege — In 1830 — ^At Antwerp — At Lyons — ^In the Hospitals 
— In Africa — ^His Death 60 

CHAPTER XVn. 

The Princess Marie — As an Artist — Her Love for Novelty — M. Edgar Quinet — 
His Prometheus — ^His Interview with the Princess — His Legend of Ahasuerus 
— Present of the Princess to M. Quinet — Statue of Joan of Arc on Horseback 
— ^The Statue at Versailles — ^Marriage of the Princess — ^Her Death .... 64 

CHAPTER XVm. 
The Opera — ^The Singers — ^A Difficult Task — The Greenroom — ^The Danseuses . 69 

CHAPTER XIX. 

The Newspaper — The Two Great Parisian Games — Lundi Gras — Fancy Ball at 
the Opera — Its Absurdities — Its Characters — A Stranger's Amazement — ^The 
First Masked Ball under Louis XV 71 

CHAPTER XX. 

Religious Ceremonies — Roman Catholic Service — The Singers — Fanny EUsler — 
Thoughts of Reform — Parisian Marriage — Pope Pius VII. in Paris .... 74 



CONTENTS. 7 

CHAPTER XXI. 

Page 
The Church of France — Its Pulpit — M. de Lamennais — His Zeal — ^His Recep- 
tion at Rome 77 

CHAPTER XXII. 

The Lounger — Paris the Lounger's City — The Lounger a Busy Man — His Reso- 
lution — The Way He Keeps It — His Saloon — His Opinion of the' Railroad — His 
Dinner — His Evening — Paris at Night 79 

CHAPTER XXm. 

A Yankee's Opinion of the Book — The Author's Defence — The French Institute 
— Bonaparte's Love for It — M. de Chateaubriand — M. Victor Hugo — M. Ville- 
main — M. Scribe — M. de Tocqueville — M. Charles Nodier — M. Viennet — 
Speech of the New Member 83 

CHAPTER XXrV. 

The Pont Neuf— Former Times— The Flower-Market— The Old Lady's Last 
Love — The Young Girl's First Love — The Failure of Her Hopes 86 

CHAPTER XXV. 

Paris Under a Grave Aspect — Pupil of the Polytechnic School — Students of Med- 
icine and Law — Palace of the Luxembom-g — Its Gardens — Only Old Authors 
Admitted — The Bowl Players — M. de Turenne — Anecdotes of Him — Henry IV. 
— Death of Marshal Ney 89 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

Reminiscences — The Observatory — M. Arago — M. de Chateaubriand — ^Yankee 
Respect for Genius — Jardin des Plantes — Its First Commencement — Gobelin 
Tapestry — Sevres China — The Antiquarian — Association of Ideas .... 92 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

The Champ de Mars — The Pantheon — ^Its Desecration — ^Voltaire and Rousseau 
— Changes in France — Hotel des Invalides — The Invalid Soldier — The Empe- 
ror's Return 94 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

The Madeleine — The Boulevards — The Gymnase Dramatique — The Dutchess de 
Berri — M. Scribe — Modern Comedies — The Porte St. Martin 97 

CHAPTER XXrX. 

Different Appearance of the Boulevards — Prison of La Force — Juvenile Delin- 
quents — A New Language — Bad Effects of Modern Plays 100 

CHAPTER XXX. 

New Wonders in Paris — The Regratteur — The Commissioner of the Quarter 

Various Little Trades — Love Letters . 102 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

The Place Royale and its Former Inhabitants — M. de Turin — Bois Robert— Mar- 
chioness de Rambouillet — Madame de Montausier — Voiture — Madame de 
Longueville— New Houses in Paris— M. Beaumarchais and the Bastille . . .104 



8 CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

Page 
The Englishman's Visit to Paris — The Englishman in a Dilemma — He Finds a 
Friend — Gi-ecian Temples — At the Jardin des Plantes — In Pere la Chaise — Col- 
umns in the Palais Royal — William's Opinion of Paris — The Column of July — 
The Faubourg St. Antoine 108 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

Environs of Paris — St. Cloud — Marie Antoinette and Mirabeau — Chateau de 
Bellevue — St. Germain — Montmorency — Island of St. Denis — ^VaUee aux Loups 
— VaUee de Chevreuse — Pavilion de Luciennes — Malmaison — Chateau de 
Rosny .112 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

Departure from Paris — The Parisian Citizen — His Character — His Marriage — 
His Children — His Idea of Order — His Love for Liberty — His Vote at the 
Election — His Rank in the National Guard — ^His Love of Pleasure — His 
Amusements — His Morals — ^His Religion — Conclusion . 115 



THE AMERICAI II PARIS, 

DURING THE WINTER. 



CHAPTER I. 

ENTRANCE INTO PARIS — LOUIS PHILIPPE. 

If, on some beautiful evening in spring or winter, you approach the immense 
city of Paris — that ghttering abyss — and, above all, if you enter by the grand 
gate — for we do not reckon a number of back entrances, which seem rather as 
if they would precipitate you into a ditch, than introduce you into the queen of 
European capitals — you will find yourself entertaining expectations, which, un- 
known to you, seem to take possession of your whole mind. A gravel walk 
gently conducts you, by an easy descent, from the village of Neuilly, the royal 
residence, to the Bois de Boulogne, the rendezvous of the wealthy ; thence to 
the Arc de Triomphe de I'Etoile, a mass of stone, laden with glory ; and still 
further on, to the Place de la Concorde, where, calm and majestic, stands the 
Obelisk, between two fountains. Never will sufficient water flow from them to 
efface the blood shed in this fatal spot. This square, which has borne so many 
different names — Place Louis XV., Place de la Revolution, Place de la Con- 
corde — presents itself to you, loaded with gilt, bronze, and colossal statues, re- 
sounding with noise, and sparkling with brilliancy ; strictly speaking, it is here, 
in this dazzling spot, between the Garde Meuble of the crown and the Chambre 
de Deputes, that the vast city of Paris begins. Advance, then, with a slow 
step : behold, admire, meditate. But we will not remain on the Place de la 
Concorde ; let us retrace our steps up the long avenue of the Champs Elysees, 
and return to the palace of Neuilly. Here you may s'ee Paris in all its glory ! 
Yonder house, standing on the shore between two islands, is the country resi- 
dence of the King of the French. Within those modest walls, in those con- 
cealed and quiet gardens, you would in vain look for his majesty the king ; you 
will only find the father of a family, who has come to repose after the fatigue of 
the day, and to prepare himself for the labors of the next. Before regicide had 
become in France a species of motiveless monomania, you might often see, pas- 
sing through the Champ Elysees, a large royal omnibus, exactly similar to the 
popular vehicles in which all the French are equal, as in the pi-esence of the 
law. In this long and citizen-like carriage were stowed, at random, the king, 
his wife, sister, four sons, three beautiful daughters, son-in-law, and some friends: 
it was a royal and a happy crowd. The carriage went at a gentle trot from the 
palace of the Tuileries to the house at Neuilly. No guards, no escort ; whoever 
would, might salute the fortune of France. You could see from the mirth of 
the king, from his open and smiling countenance, how much he enjoyed it, and 
how proud he was of his humble incognito. 



10 LOUIS PHILIPPE — STERNE. 

At Other times, by the side of the road which leads to Neuilly, an elegant 
boat, dressed with flags, and full of children and young women, was rowed up 
the Seine ; whence proceeded a thoiisand joyous cries and hurralos : the stranger 
who saw the water ripple, as the boat passed, would never have suspected that 
this bark, more fragile than that of Cesar, contained the whole royal family. 
Thou carriest Cesar and his fortune. 

Another day, in the midst of the masons and plasterers, so often in requisition 
at the royal dwellings, you would meet a stout man, with a fine, intelligent coun- 
tenance, active and busy, going from place to place, rule in hand, consulting 
and correcting plans, and sometimes nimbly mounting ladders. If you inquired 
whether this was not M. Fontaine, the king's architect, you would be told it was 
the king himself, the most enterprising architect in his kingdom. These were 
the peaceful hours of Louis Philippe, if he ever had any. He was evidently 
well suited for the twofold life which he adopted — the life of the king and that 
of the citizen — the court and the house. These were his pleasures. The bul- 
lets of the abominable Fieschi and others have altered this state of things ; if 
they have not killed the king, they have wounded royalty : they have saddened, 
even before the terrible accident of July 13, 1842, the formerly pleasant route 
from the Tuileries to Neuilly, and have encumbered it with soldiers and guards. 
Poor madmen ! not to see that the very worst hour in which to attack a king is 
that in which he is only the father of his children. 



CHAPTER n. 

STERNE — THE EOIS DE BOULOGNE. 



With your permission, in this pleasant and somewhat fanciful journey that 
we are taking together, we will go a little at random. We are travelling in a 
country too well known to make it necessary for us to be governed by any very 
strict rules. Our good fathers, the English, have in this style a chef d'ceuvre, 
which 1 shall take good care not to imitate — " The Sentimental Journey.''^ Nev- 
er was the Paris of last century better or more completely studied that by that 
rascal Sterne. Honest rogue that he was I he preached the virtues that he did 
not possess, and all this in such an easy, tranquil way. He looked demure, as 
they say in France, but nevertheless we will neither trust to his contrition, his 
lowered eyes, and his modest blushes, nor yet imitate him. No, no ; we will 
not follow the steps of this hypocrite, who knew Paris much better than all the 
Parisians of his time. Instead of this, we will take our own course, stopping 
occasionally to see and hear everything, that we may repeat it to you. Besides, 
we are not alone in this journey ; we have with us a painter, a diTiftsman, an en- 
graver, and a translatoir, who knows but little of the language that we speak, and 
for whom we ask every indulgence. Perhaps you fancied that we had already 
reached the palace of the Tuileries ; your pardon, we were only upon the bridge 
of Neuilly, at farthest. This is a bridge boldly thrown across the Seine, be- 
tween the islands which suiTOund the king's gardens. After crossing the bridge, 
you will find that the villas already begin to lessen. Then commence large 
parks of half an acre, and spacious gardens composed of four or five pots of 
flowers ; he who only possesses a single vine, says proudly, as he leaves Paris on 
Saturday evening, " I am going to my vineyard." The Parisian is a great lover 
of country pleasures, in all their variety, provided only that they are near. 
Since he has seen so many revolutions accomplished in twenty-four hours, he 
does not like to be long absent from his city, so much does he fear that he shall 
not find, on his return, the same government there was when he left. Proceed 



THE BOIS DE EOULOG^^E — -THE FORTIFICATIONS ENTRANCE-DUTY. 11 

a little further, antl you will reach the gate of the Bois de Boulogne. There, 
by an accident which I considered fortunate, my carriage broke down, just like 
a vessel which loses its mast on entering the harbor. I was soon disengaged 
from it, and while the postillion and my sen^ant repaired it, I watched the fash- 
ionables of Paris, who had come there in elegant equipages, to see, and to exhibit 
themselves. What an infinite variety of carriages, horses, equipages, dresses, and, 
above all, countenances ! All the vi'omen, young and old, of the Parisian world, 
were upon this occasion at the evening promenade ; all the men ; young people, 
the victims of usury ; would-be ministers, the victims of politics ; specimens of 
every class were at the Bois de Boulogne. They passed and repassed before 
me, galloping on horseback, in carriages, or on foot ; they seemed almost to fly 
as they passed. And I, the new comer into this fashionable world, was already 
striving to guess its concealed passions, and its mysterious desires. I would wil- 
lingly have followed these busy idlers, these vain aspirants ; I would willingly have 
mounted behind them, or clung to their carriages, and there, concealed under 
the livery, have heard them joking or laughing, hoping or fearing, blessing or 
cursing. But this was impossible. 

However, the slight accident that had thus detained me, while the great ones 
of the world were galloping by, was quickly repaired. No one honored me 
with a single glance ; the men being too much occupied with their horses, and 
the women with the efil'ect of their toilets and their smiles. It is in this way that 
they pass their lives, exhibiting and admiring themselves, and whispering all 
sorts of mysterious things, which the first comer can explain aloud, after a 
month's sojourn in this noisy city. From this spot it is but a short distance to the 
Arc de Triomphe, the largest triumphal arch in the world ; we must remember, 
however, that it is placed there to celebrate the greatest victories ; it raises its head 
yet in the freshness of youth as high as the oldest mountain which is crowned 
with tempests and storms. All round the vast monument ramparts rise from the 
earth, ditches are dug, towers are built, but the Parisian knows nothing of this 
yet ; he will not think of the ditches until he has jumped across them, or the 
towers until he hears them groaning as they cast forth fire and flame ; then only- 
will he be alarmed at this formidable noise. 

The entry is easy, the gate of the city being open night and day. The assas- 
sin, the forger, the criminal, may enter proudly, provided they have nothing pro- 
hibited in their carriages or their pockets. The great crime in this city, which is 
so poor, is to smoke tobacco which has not passed through the hands of the admin- 
istration, or to drink wine which has not paid the entrance-duty to the munici- 
pal officer. This officer is at the gate night and day ; he is armed with an equiv- 
ocal sword, one without sheath or point, but which is sure to discover the most 
artfully-concealed things. No vehicle is exempted from this visit ; the gay car- 
riage which contains the opera-dancer, the chariot of the broker, the berlin of 
the French peer, who is perhaps half asleep, all owe obedience and respect to 
the municipal officer. They can trust a peer of France to make the laws of the 
kingdom, but they can not trust him not to put butchers'-meat into his carriage. 
What a lesson of equality ! 

While I was waiting for the officer to visit me in my turn, I had time to ad- 
mire the Arc de Triomphe de I'Etoile, from its base which descends into the 
earth, to its summit which is lost in the skies. 



12 THE ARC DE TRIOMPHE DE l'eTOILE= 

CHAPTER 111. 

TRIUMPHAL ARCHES. 

Generally speaking, the principal inhabitants of this beautiful country, who, 
as Marie Stuart said, have long been Greeks and Romans, and would have 
much trouble in again becoming simple Frenchmen, profess great love for tri- 
umphal arches. Trajan's triumphal arch, and the monuments of the same sort, 
with which Italy still abounds, have prevented the French from sleeping. "We 
Americans, people of yesterday, as these frivolous old men call us, have not yet 
learned to value these great masses of stone, vain ornaments of a useless gran- 
deur. In France it is quite the reverse. The more useless a monument ap- 
pears, the better are they pleased with it. The Frenchman loves glitter, noise, 
and glory ; his greatest pleasure, in the public fetes, is to see some magnificent 
firework bursting in the air, the light of a few minutes, of which the slightest 
spark would save a miserable family. But no ! the poorest, who have not even 
a piece of bread for their evening meal, run to see this blazing gunpowder, 
without thinking of all the money that is wasted in ephemeral stars. On the 
contrary, the more majestic the fireworks, and the more money they have cost, 
the better are the French satisfied. There is certainly much more of Francis I. 
than of Franklin in this people. 

The Arc de Triomphe de I'Etoile has been, for the few years that it has been 
finished, the greatest pride of the Parisian. He is prouder even of this, than he 
is of the revolution of July, that great event, at the same time the work of a 
child and a giant. It is just thirty-six years, since the Arc de Triomphe de I'E- 
toile was commenced. O France ! to what unexpected revolutions have these 
heights been witness. It was a great people, that nation of 1806, governed by 
that great man whom the world calls Emperor. The French nineteenth cen- 
tury, scarcely begun, was already loaded with victories and triumphs — 1806 i it 
is the year of Austerlitz, that victory which decided the empire. When she 
saw herself thus with one foot upon Russia, and the other upon Austria, France 
chose to have the glorious bauble of a triumphal arch. Above all, she was de- 
termined it should be the greatest in the world, as Austerlitz was the greatest of 
victories. The first stone of this mountain was laid on the 15th of August, 
1806. From the commencement of the monarchy, the 15th of August had 
been consecrated to the feast of the Virgin ; but it had become the day of Saint 
Napoleon : with so good a grace had the mother of our Lord given up her fete 
day, to him who was the emperor. 

And now that I can contemplate, from its summit to its foundation, this gi- 
gantic monument, whereon are inscribed so many victories of which there is 
now nothing but the name ; whereon are represented so many heroes long since 
dead, the imperishable envelope of a passing glory, the funeral stone raised upon 
the cradle of so many armies, which passed like the storm and tempest, I can 
fancy that I can see the illustrious monument rising by degrees from the earth, 
and, sometimes joyful, sometimes shrouded in son-ow, raise its head, now glo- 
rious, now humbled. Let it rise, however, to the noise of the cannon which is 
heard from far. Austerlitz has placed the first stone of this triumph of stone, 
Jena will place the second, Wagram will finish this indestructible base. But 
how many battles like Austerlitz, Jena, and Wagram, must have been fought, 
to finish without interruption, this monument erected by victory, and which 
peace alone could complete ! In fact, scarcely did it appear above the surface 
of the earth, before the fortunes of France changed. A violent shock was felt, 
which did not overthrow it, but which arrested its progress. The wind that 
blew from Waterloo, prevented one stone more from being placed. Hardly had 
the monument reached a sufficient height, for the old soldier who watched on 
its summit, with his sight obscured by tears, to see from which side the enemy 
approached. 



THE PLACE VENDOME — FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON. 13 

Then fell the empire, carrying with it. that future said to be eternal ! Of this 
monarchy, founded for centuries, nothing remains, except the remembrance 
which has returned the more powerfully after having slept so long under the 
soil of St. Helena. Hardly do they recall this great man in France, unless it is 
to declare that he confiscated all the liberties of the country. Thus the two 
giants, who looked down upon the world from the height on which they were 
placed, the emperor and the statue on the column, fell at the same time ; the 
former from his throne, the latter from the brass which formed its foundation : 
then were seen in France — oh, shame on the defeats which break even civil 
courage ! which cause everything, even national glory, to be forgotten ! — then 
were seen Frenchmen, harnessed like beasts of burden, with Austrian horses, to 
throw down from its base the statue of the emperor ! What prevented this 
mighty bronze from falling upon these men and horses, and crushing them ? 
The noble statue, no doubt, had pity on them ; it descended like a dethroned 
emperor ; it reposed in the dust, triumphant ; it was patient, because it felt it- 
self eternal, as eternal as the standard of the three glorious colors. Fifteen 
years did it remain in obscurity, as the tricolored flag remained in the dust ; but 
now through the omnipotence of popular power, both have reappeared, more 
brilliant, more powerful, more glorious than ever ! 

What were we saying ? and what is the matter ? Whence comes this long 
cry of triumph 1 Why are people running out of tlieir houses in such haste ? 
The northeast wind is strong and violent, the sky is black, winter has spread its 
ice all around. Tell me who the hero can be, that is so impatiently expected 
within these walls ? Who can be coming, but his majestj' the emperor and the 
king, who again revisits Paris ? Who can be expected with this feverish impa- 
tience, but the brave soldier whom the people called the " Little Coi'poral ?" 
Listen to the firing of the cannon ! Look at the flags flying I Have not all the 
principal men of France risen, to go and meet this great man who returns from 
exile ? Hurrah ! hurrah ! it is he — it is Napoleon ! the emperor ! He returns 
from that barren rock in the sea against which his fortune was dashed. Long 
live the emperor ! No, he was not dead ; he brings back to enthusiastic and 
passionate France — to France which weeps for him as she weeps for glory — the 
excitenaent of battle, the intoxication of triumph, the days of action, the endless 
agonies of war, all that she loves so devotedly, so madly. Hurrah, and triumph! 
And indeed it is truly the emperor who returns. Not, indeed, the emperor 
living, and ready again to take up the stump of his sword ; but it his dead body 
— that noble and imperial trophy which the France of 1830 ought to value 
above any other. He is gone ! The rock of St. Helena has let go its prey ; 
the weeping willow has strewn its last leaves upon the coffin of St. Helena. 
Oh fate ! Charles X., the all-powerful, the well-loved king — he whom the peo- 
ple surrounded with so much devotion, whom Europe proclaimed the king of its 
choice and its alliance — Charles X. is buried in some obscure vault of an ob- 
scure church in Germany, and here is the captive of Sir Hudson Lowe waited 
for in the vaults of the Invalides, by the side of Turenne ! The emperor ! It 
is the emperor ! He is welcomed by universal shouting. The people crowd 
round his path, and receive him on their knees. A prince of the blood royal, a 
noble and a handsome young man, has crossed the seas to seek this illustrious 
body ; and he now brings it back like a true knight-errant, whose task is accom- 
plished. Sound the trumpets! beat the drums ! bow, thou arch of glory! wave 
in the air, ye tricolored flags, reconquered in three days ! And we also must 
applaud ; we, the men come from so far ; the wise travellers ; the jMegmaiics, 
as they call us in France. Really, my New York brothers, enthusiasm is an 
excellent thing ! Enthusiasm throws glory round your forehead, warmth into 
your heart, imagination into your mind, hope into your soul. Enthusiasm ani- 
mates and warms, brightens and rejoices ; it transforms France into your coun- 
try — that man who is carried by in his bier, into your sovereign for the moment 
he is passing. What a long and glorious retinue ! They have assembled here 
and there, as they could, the illustrious remnant of the ancient armies ; they 
have summoned round the tomb all the companions of the emperor who still 



14 FUNERAL OF NAPOLEON THE RESTORATION. 

live ; enormous instruments of copper have been made, which resound with 
triumph : in this noble retinue are seen the mameluke and the horse of the em- 
peror — tv/o servants of his battles. Every moment there is a fresh surprise — an 
unexpected appearance. In one carriage, the almoner ; in another, two or three 
marshals of France, formerly soldiers, now princes. And at last come, ranged 
in order, the seamen of the Belle Poule — brave mariners, proud of their illus- 
trious burden ; they are clapped as they pass ; the spectators repeat to each 
other their toils, their works, their patience, their courage ; for in the midst of 
the sea, believing that France and England had declared war, they resolved, aj 
the first signal, to sink themselves with their ship and its imperial burden. After 
these comes their \Vorthy captain, his highness the Prince de Joinville ; a bold 
seaman, a brave soldier, a handsome and excellent young man ; henceforth his 
name will be attached to this great event of the emperor's return ! But now, 
what silence ! what tears on every countenance ! Here, in this triple coffin — in 
this car, covered with violet hangings, and floating banners ; below these eagles, 
whose wings are spread with such a triumphant air ; below these ensigns of 
battle, this triple crown — here is the Emperor, or, at least, he who was the Em- 
peror Napoleon. This funeral march — what do I say ? this triumphal proces- 
sion, traversed the whole city, amid the greatest testimonies of sympathy and 
respect. The city still remembers it : the Champs Elysees, and, above all, the 
Arc de Triomphe always will remember it. 

But let us return to the history we were giving ; it is the history of a whole 

age. 

When the Restoration brought back to France repose and peace — the repose 
of a day, a peace full of future revolutions and tumults — the Arc de Triomphe 
de I'Etoile remained for along time abandoned and deserted; the ruin of a mon- 
ument hardly begun, the wreck of a glory half extinguished, the despised relics 
of the greatest and most useless victories. But the empire lived in these ruins; 
the clamors of the great army made themselves heard in these gigantic arches ; 
the eagle, wounded to death, cariie to die upon these unfinished cornices ; Aus- 
terlitz, Jena, Wagram, moaned from these foundations, of which they were the 
base, their inarticulate complaints- It was dangerous to touch these sacred re- 
mains. It was as dangerous to raise the monument of the emperor, as to throw 
it down. Besides, once erected, whose name should they inscribe on the sum- 
mit of this useless mountain ? What symbols should they place upon its sides 1 
What victories should they proclaim upon these eloquent stones ? There was 
but one name for this monument — but one army for these stones — but one flag 
that could properly crown these majestic heights. It was the great imperial 
name ; it was the great army ; it was the great tricolored flag ! But the Resto- 
ration trembled with horror, and turned pale with fright, at the mere mention of 
this terrible and dreaded past. 

If the Restoration had been bold and brave enough not to tremble before 
French glory ; if the legitimate king had been wise enough, to shelter himself 
under the imperial mantle of him who was made emperor by the people and by 
glory ; if the fleur-de-lis had allowed the golden bee to penetrate into its harm- 
less flower cup; if the white flag had permitted the two colors, her younger sis- 
ters, to protect it by the double reflection before which Europe trembles ; there 
is no doubt that in the days of revolution, this prudence of royalty by divine 
right 'would have borne imperishable fruits. The emperor erect upon his col- 
umn, would have called furiously to the people, " Respect the royal majesty 
which has respected my conquered majesty." The bee concealed in the em- 
palement of the lily would have threatened with its sting, the imprudent hands 
which dared to menace the noble flower ; while the two national colors uniting 
their efforts, would have enveloped the standard of St. Louis in their drapery 
of blood and azure. But no ! The present never knows how to respect the 
past. The first object of the king who arrives, is to insult the king who has 
left. The victorious standard overwhelms with its contempt the fallen one. 
Such is the character of nearly all the nations of Europe : they fancy that they 
can obliterate history, as they could break a statue of marble, and that they can 



THE RESTORATION ROMAN CATHOLIC CATHEDRALS. 15 

abolish the past, as they could wash out a painting in water-colors. The gov- 
ernments are like the people ; they break, they efface, they overthrow. Impru- 
dent men ! they do not see that in thus acting, they teach their subjects how to 
break, to efface, and to overthrow ; and that authority is, next to glory, the most 
transient thing on earth. 

It was not, then, till the Restoration was as firmly established as it could be, 
that it was bold enough to take in hand this monument begun by the emperor. 
Before the monarchy of Louis XVIII. and Charles X. had reached this ex- 
tremity of presumption, it must surely have made great conquests. And so it 
had. It had re-established the dogma of legitimacy ; it had done more : it had 
caused royalty to be respected ; it had arranged three or four times, and always 
for its own advantage, the charter that it had given, or rather that it had granted. 
It had even thought of the right of primogeniture, this completion of the divine 
right, and did not at all despair of one day passing this law, which would have 
remade a few of the nobility, and many of the clergy. Still more than this; 
when the Restoration dared touch the Arc de I'Etoile, even to finish it, it had 
made a bauble of glory ; it had played at fighting; it had just restored the tot- 
tering royalty of Spain; it had made a kind of legitimate Napoleon, with a 
white cockade, of his royal highness the Duke d'Angouleme. See by what 
delusions, and by what plagiarisms, the best-established and most benevolent 
monarchies destroy themselves ! 

Thus the Arc de Triomphe de I'Etoile, after having been founded by Napo- 
leon, and the battle of Austerlitz, was continued by the Duke d'Angouleme, and 
the taking of Trocadero. Stones raised themselves upon stones, as a matter of 
obedience, without pleasure and without love. The masons obeyed the archi- 
tect, the architect obeyed the minister of the interior, and this was all. The 
monument was merely built, withoiit excitement, without enthusiasm, and 
even without pride, just as a simple house would be built. None of those who 
were employed had any faith in their work. They went daily to it, they pro- 
gressed slowly when they had too much money. It is not thus that victory, 
or religion, that other victory, builds. If the catholic monuments with which 
Europe abounds, those lofty cathedrals that are lost in the skies, and ornament- 
ed from top to bottom like a bride's veil, had been raised by ordinary workmen, 
by men hired by the day, not one of them would now have been finished ; they 
would have remained incomplete, like the cathedral of Cologne, that chef 
d'oeuvre which the whole catholic power can not finish at the present moment. 
But the sublime workmen who raised these monuments, said to have been erect- 
ed by angels, were not, in fact, mercenary, but Christian laborers. They did 
not expect their payment in this world, they believed that their Father above 
was waiting, himself to reward those who had labored in his vineyard. In the 
times of belief, a cathedral to raise, was not a monument of stone to build, it 
was a prayer to accomplish. Every workman attached himself, during life, to 
part of a wall, and there — sublime hermit, lofty dreamer — he inscribed, day by 
day, his prayer and his thought. He obeyed only himself and his genius, his 
work was as isolated as his prayer — sometimes absurd, sometimes serious ; to-day 
higher than heaven, to-morrow lower than hell ; full of hopes or fears, happy 
or miserable — he left Lipon the stone, living traces of the most concealed 
thoughts, the best disguised mysteries of his heart. After which, he at length 
died, happy and proud to be buried at the foot of the wall which he had 
engraved in honor of Jesus Christ. The next day, another mason — I would 
say another Christian — took the place of the great artist who was dead. The 
work was thus transmitted from one generation to another, like one of those 
endless poems, to which human glory has always some new song to add. 

But I can no more understand a triumphal arch being raised without enthusi- 
asm, than I can a cathedral built without faith. 

And yet, if the Restoration could have suspected what would soon happen; 
if it had ever imagined, that to this triumphal arch was attached the fate of the 
royalty of Charles X., and that even before it could be finished by his care, the 
imperial monument would quickly shake of all these traces of royalty, and dis- 



16 THE CHAMPS ELTSEES BEAUJON. 

dain to carry a white cockade, it would doubtless have stopped the works. In- 
deed, the Arc de Trioinphe, faithful to its master and its standard, even before 
its completion, was resolved to have no other name than that of the emperor, no 
other flag than his. If the Restoration could have foreseen this, like another 
Penelope, it would have destroyed in the evening the work of the morning. 
But the Restoration had no foresight and therefore it was lost. The Arc du 
Trocadero has again become completely the triumph of Austerlitz. 



CHAPTER IV. 

THE CHAMPS ELTSEES. 



It is impossible for me to describe to you, all the beauty and novelty of this 
Parisian evening. I was a foreigner, but it appeared as if I had only returned 
to my own country ; I was a new comer but it seemed as if I had never quitted 
this noble city which passed before me in all its brilliancy, mystery, and happi- 
ness. The air was pure and invigorating ; the carriages rolled gently, along a 
gravel as fine and soft as turf. Those who were on foot looked as calm and 
happy as those who were riding. It was a long fete through this long avenue. 
Formerly the avenue was a desert ; now it is covered with pretty little houses, 
quite new, palaces of yesterday, built in four feet of garden. On my right was 
the ancient garden of that farmer of the public revenue, Beaujon. Beaujon 
was one of the fabulous financiers of the past century ; financiers without talent 
and without foresight, made rich by one chance of the ante-chamber, and ruin- 
ed by another ; oppressors of the people, themselves devoured in turn by the 
great lords ; robbers here, robbed there ; people who were acquainted with no 
other industry than usury and the loan of money on pledge, but the pledge 
given them is the bread of the poor, it is the sweat of the miserable, and on 
such pledges they lend millions. Nevertheless, this large garden, in which is 
an hotel of marble and gold, formerly belonged to this slave of excise and salt 
duty. He died insolvent, and almost as poor as the great Corneille, but before 
ruining as he had enriched himself, before dying alone, abandoned by every one, 
he founded the hospital which bears his name, thinking that an expiation for the 
scandalous manner in which he had obtained his fortune! When he had dis- 
appeared from the world in which he had made so much noise, the gardens of 
this farmer-general Beaujon, were for a long time the rendezvous of the people, 
who came there to enjoy themselves, without thinking by what tortures those 
who preceded had adorned them; after the people came others less innocent — 
speculators — who have cut down the trees, destroyed the flowers, spoiled the 
turf, dispersed the birds who sang so sweetly, and built a town upon all this 
ruin ! It is a delightful spot, and is, by degrees, becoming inhabited ; only let 
them assemble here some good contemporary names, a few young and beautiful 
women, the honor and wit of the Parisian conversation, and the fortune of this 
place will be made. In the meantime, the Amphions who built these houses, 
have inscribed at the head of the principal avenue, the great poetical name of 
this age — Chateaubriand. 

Quite at the end of the avenue, in the centre of the Place de la Concorde-— 
after having passed several theatres in the open air, where horn-players, singers, 
monkeys, and strolling actors, fill the air with their noises and their indefatigable 
tricks — stop, if you please, before a king, dethroned it is true, but not till after 
he had stood for ages. Pause before this superb stranger, who has with so 
much majesty, reigned over the plains of past time, an oriental conquest, a 
splendid victory, but also a splendid defeat. This is the way to fall when one 



MEHEMET ALI OBELISK OF THE I.UXOR. 17 

must fall! to surrender when one must surrender! to die when death comes ! 
But what a fall! To fall there, where his kingdom is nothing but a desert — to 
raise his head here over thirty-two millions of men ! To surrender, it is true, 
but to surrender only to France, which jDasses through a thousand perils and a 
thousand fatigues, to bring him back in triumph ; to die, after a life of three 
thousand years, the life of the pyramids, but to return to life, for yet another 
three thousand years, in the great modern Babylon, and to see so many victo- 
rious and eloquent generations passing and dying at his feet, like crowds of ants! 
This can scarcely be called a fall; this is to be greater than Alexander, happier 
tlian Napoleon. Do you ask the name of this fallen hero ? the fate of this noble 
exile ? and from what throne he fell ? this model for ever worthy of imitation 
by all dethroned kings — my answer is. It is the obelisk of the Luxor. 

Mehemet Ali, the regenerator of Egypt, or, if you prefer it, its first man of 
business, that deceiver who has lately tried to kindle a universal war, that bar- 
barian who has all the cunning of great politicians, in one of those generous fits, 
which, because they cost but little, are so natural to the masters of the East, 
gave the king of France the two charming obelisks of the Luxor ; Luxor 
which was the suburb of Thebes, as the obelisks are only the advanced guards 
of the pyramids. Charles X., to respond properly to the politeness of the 
pacha, sent a vessel to bring him this singular present, in proper time and place. 
There is a French proverb which says, " Small presents keep up friendship.''^ The 
pacha knew the proverb, and treated the French accordingly. However, the 
present was not one to be despised. 

Picture to yourself a single block of stone, twenty-four feet high ; its color a 
beautiful red. You would say this exquisite stone was transparent, it dazzles 
you with its beauty ; it is slender and delicate, and is covered with a thousand 
hieroglyphical characters, which will for a long time torment the Champollions, 
present and to come. They were obliged to seek this long stone in the desert, 
to take it down from its almost eternal foundation, where it had stood erect for 
three thousand years. When lowered, it .was necessary to dig a canal to bring 
the Luxor to the sea; but once on the sea, what care, what trouble, what effort 
was necessary, what dangers were to be encountered ! If the vessel had overset, 
the obelisk would have been lost for ever ! 

In direct opposition to another French proverb, which says, " Men meet, but 
mountains stand still," this mountain of the East has at last arrived within the 
walls of astonished Paris. For a long time Paris had expected the obelisk with 
that eager childlike curiosity which forms its happiness, when suddenly one day 
a long vessel, or rather a long bier of a funeral color, was seen to arrive in the 
Seine- It was the obelisk, in its mortal covering. At this sight the astonish- 
ment was universal; "What is it, and where does it come from ?" The Paris- 
ians descended by thousands, into the dismasted careen, and through the disjoint- 
ed boards looked at the dumb and motionless stranger. After the people rushed 
the savans to examine it ; and one of the wisest of them even fell into the river, 
nay, would have been drowned had it not been for a brave seaman who had come 
from Egypt to these calm and shallow waters, and found himself almost as much 
a stranger in them, as the obelisk. Alas ! after having saved a savant who could 
not swim, the very same evening this unfortunate mariner fell from the top of 
his canoe into this pool, which people call the Seine, and, horrible to relate, 
was drowned in this four foot of water ! To come from so great a distance, to 
tear Cleopatra's needle from its base, to bring it to this hole, and to die in this 
muddy and unwholesome puddle ! What a death ! 

That the obelisk might recover from its fatigue they laid it softly down in the 
bed of the Seine. There it passed the winter, under the ice, no doubt regret- 
ting its sand and its sun. At present the obelisk is erect, perhaps for an age or 
two, in the centre of the most beautiful city in the world. Alas ! who can say 
if this fatal stone is not doomed, a second time, to reign over a desert ? 

But I had seen too much for a first day; I was -almost dazzled; I closed my 
eyes, and did not open them again, till I reached the court of the Hotel des 
Princes, in one of the finest streets in Paris. 

2 



18 THE HOTEL DES PRINCES — THE TABLE d'HOTE. 

The Hotel des Princes is a spacious and splendid house, where assemble, most 
harmoniously, all kinds of princes, or, if you prefer it, all kinds of birds of pas- 
sage. If you saw, from a distance, this hive, where all the dialects of Europe 
are spoken, you would say it was the tower of Babel, after the confusion of 
tongues. To this hospitable house all may come, for all will find, without fail, 
an apartment, a room, even if it must be a very small one, to suit the purse. 
The first floor is rightly appropriated to the happy and the wealthy of the earth. 
There you will find all the luxury and all the comfort of great houses. Erard's 
piano, that unrivalled instrument — the clock, which marks so accurately the hour 
for ambition or pleasure — the carpet of Aubusson — the Venitian glass — the cu- 
rious paintings — the rare furniture — nothing is wanting. There is a saloon for 
madame, a study for monsieur, an ante-chamber for your attendants ; indeed, 
you may have everything which is necessary for elegant life. To each bell is 
attached an active servant, a sylph in the livery of the house. A little higher, 
the silence is greater, the servants less numerous, the bell less imperious, the 
eagerness not so great, the obedience slower, the space more confined. At this 
height, our prince of the H6tel des Princes is nothing more than an honest citi- 
zen ; a bridegroom from the province, who wishes to show Paris to his bride ; 
a gentleman retired from business ; a fine fellow who wants nothing in Paris but 
its pleasures, and who only has a bed there, for the purpose of sleeping in it. 
What does it signify, then, to him, what sort of a room he has, when he only 
spends an hour a day in it ? But if you ascend one or two stories higher, you 
find yourself in a new world, where some are beginning, and others are finish- 
ing their course ; old men ruined, young ones without money, solicitors without 
credit, dreams, nothings, deceptions, vanities ; and also hope, love, youth, care- 
lessness, happiness ! Every member of this little state lives in peace with his 
neighbor ; they are not acquainted with each other ; they live like recluses, each 
in his cell ; they speak to each other, without ever asking names or rank ; they go 
and come, they laugh, they sing, they are ill : one takes a dancing-lesson in the next 
apartment to another who is dying : this man leaves, full of joy ; that one arrives, 
with tears in his eyes. All the great coquettes of Europe, singing-birds, cosmopol- 
itan sylphs, all the heroes and heroines of the ballet, princes and princesses, pass 
and repass through the Hotel des Princes; they go and return ; they are always in 
motion; laughing, singing, '■'■Bon jour !"'" '■'■Bon soir!" is all you hear from them. 
What a singular world this hotel is ! It is an open camp, in which you may see all 
kinds of ephemeral passions, transitory sorrows, and easily gratified ambitions. 
Chance and opportunity preside over this strange universe ; every man for himself 
is its motto. But there is one hour in each day, one solemn hour, when all differ- 
ences of rank and fortune are forgotten. At six o'clock, when the dinner-bell is 
rung, you may see the guests assembling from every part of the house ; this one 
comes from the first floor, that one descends from the garret ; no matter — they will 
sit together, and eat with the same appetite. The table is long, spacious, and splen- 
did. To see ihe golden candlesticks, full of wax candles — the interminable table- 
cloths, so beautifully white — the rooms decorated with flowers — you would think 
it was some splendid fete : it is the daily fete, or, more properly speaking, the daily 
dinner. What a problem to solve ! For a sum hardly large enough to pay for 
a meal at some restaurateur's in the Palais Royal, you have the use of the long 
table, the well-warmed room, the numerous servants, the dazzling candles, the 
large service of plate, the experienced cook, the three courses, in which nothing 
has been forgotten that earth, forest, fresh water, or salt, could produce ; all 
these are at your service, traveller ! And at the same time, the soft voices of 
well-dressed and clever women are around you ; great names, both French and 
foreign, are pronounced in your ears ; the French wines — those wines which 
have had at least as much effect in making France popular as the language of 
the country — sparkle and shine in their beautifully colored crystals. What en- 
joyment ! what eaters ! what admirable egoists ! They talk of our freedom, at 
the American tables d'hote; those who speak of it with so much bitterness, have 
never dined at the table d'hote of the Hotel des Princes. It is quite true, that as 
soon as dinner is over, French politeness is attentive, and eager to show itself. 



FIRST NIGHT IN PARIS THE VISION. 19 

They have eaten the best fruit at table, without offering any to the lady next 
them ; yes, but then they would never consent to pass before her. The French 
are more polite than the Americans, perhaps, but most certainly they are equally 
ill-bred. 

When I reached the Hotel des Princes, I was in that state of stupor which 
the sudden view of a variety of striking objects will inevitably produce. Nothing 
is more fatiguing and wearisome than prolonged admiration. Thus I saw nothing, 
the first evening, of what I have now described to you. I allowed myself to be 
conducted to the apartment which, in the opinion of my host, would suit me ; 
for it is he who gives the final judgment, as to what number in his universe you 
shall occupy, at so much per day. As soon as I entered my room, which ap- 
peared to be a very tolerable one, I opened the window ; it overlooked one of 
the most curious boulevards of Paris ; but it was the hour when the city, tired 
with the labor and the feelings of the day, had resigned itself to sleep ; it was the 
hour of silence, of repose — the hour when everything is hushed, even ambition. 
I closed my window, saying to the sleeping city, a demain ! 

I called, and the waiter obeyed my summons. After having given him my 
orders, I went into my bedroom. "Will monsieur sleep here ?" said the wor- 
thy man, with a look of slight alarm. " Why do you ask," I replied, "and 
what is there so frightful in sleeping here ?" The man hesitated a moment, and 
then said, "If monsieur does not like his accommodations to-night, he can 
change his room to-morrow." 

He left me, and I went to bed, in that state of delightful sleepiness, and almost 
oriental stupor, v/hich is natural to a man who has travelled fifty leagues, before 
reaching Paris, and who, within the last three hours of his life, has seen more 
incredible wonders, has picked up more foreign news, and has found out more 
of social greatness and misery, than he ever saw in his childhood, imagined in 
Ms youth, or will see again, through the rest of his days. 



CHAPTER V, 

THE VISION. 



And now I had a vision, sweeter than I could possibly have conceived. I 
slept. How long I had slept, I am ignorant ; but suddenly, in the midst of mjr 
first slumber, a repose I had been anticipating for twenty days, while I was still 
gently rocked by that delightful motion of the post-chaise, which follows the 
traveller even to his couch, I heard, or thought I heard, the most touching and 
refined melodies. It was indeed exquisite harmony ; and I can speak upon this 
subject as a connoisseur — for every great idea which has proceeded from the 
head and heart of talented musicians, I possess, in my head and heart. Music 
has been the great study, or what amounts to the same thing, the great passion 
of my life. Beethoven and Mozart, Haydn and Gluck, Weber and Nicolo, 
Paesiello and Rossmi — I am well acquainted with them all. Nevertheless, I 
was now listening to marvellous harmony ; and, strange to say, it was quite new 
to me. The hand that played this invisible piano, if it was a piano, had a firm 
bold touch, with an admirable mixture of judgment and passion. At first it was 
a timid and mysterious sound, but it soon became clear, grand, and natural. I 
did not even try to ascertain whether I was awake, or whether I was indulged 
with a dream ; I listened, and admired, and very soon wept. What a vast num- 
ber of ideas in this extraordinary performance ! How full of genius were those 
sounds ! The man went from one passion to another, from grief to joy, from a 
curse to a prayer, from hate to love — and still continued, without taking breath, 
without stopping : he played in the 4:rue style of genius J 



20 BEAUTIFUL MUSIC — MEYERBEER. 

What a man ! Thoughtful even in his transports, spirited even in his still- 
ness, he carried to the greatest extent, the expression of Christian charity, and 
the phrensy of vengeance. I knew nothing of this lamentable history, of which 
the principal details were passing confusedly before me ; but I heard enough to 
understand, that it was full of catastrophes. What was his end — his plan— his 
dream? To Avhat vengeance was he advancing ? I could not tell. He was not 
bewildered by the expression of so many grand thoughts ; nor by the chaos, in- 
to which he could, with one word, throw light. On the contrary he sported 
with the disorder ; he blended and confounded, at pleasure, all the elements of 
this imposing work. Alas! without suspecting it, I was present at the comple- 
tion of one of those immortal things, which men call masterpieces. 

I was dumb, confounded, delighted; I held my breath, and said to that sweet 
sleep I had so much desired, " Begone !" 

But sleep rested upon my moistened eyelids to listen. 

The invisible genius stopped. You would have said, to hear him so abruptly 
quit this nocturnal drama, that the passionate inspiration he had been obeying, 
had suddenly left him. The man was evidently possessed with some great idea, 
which he had difficulty in thoroughly realizing ; but he was one of those per- 
sons who are not easily discouraged. I heard him walk his room with measured 
steps ; then he threw himself into a chair, as if he would sleep for an hour. 
Vain effort ! there is no sleep for the work of a thought, which is not yet complete. 
He returned then to his labor, but this time with an energy which had in it 
something of despair. And what a scene, or rather, what a drama, did he por- 
tray that night ! What touching sympathy ! what terror ! and what love, were 
expressed by these sweet notes ! Cries of grief came from his soul, but they 
were so sad, so tender, so terrible, that he himself felt the sob to whicla he gave 
utterance. What rapture, what transport, and what depth in this passion ! 
Pure and melancholy voices ascended from this abyss. You could hear the 
sounds of the condemned from this open pit. There were a thousand terrors 
clashing with a thousand hopes. I was bewildered by it, and cried out for mer- 
cy and help! But at last all ceased, all became calm, all died away, and sleep 
again took possession of me; or rather, my dream continued, and I dreamed of 
you, ye harps, spoken of in scripture, hung upon the willows of the Euphrates! 

The next morning, when my host came to my room, to ask if monsieur want- 
ed anything, my first word was, " Who is it then?" I was pale, bewildered, trans- 
ported. I frightened the man. "Ah, monsieur," cried he, clasping his hands, 
" I see how it is, they have given you the room next to Meyerbeer !" And it 
was really he — it was Meyerbeer ! It was the inspired author of Robert le Dia- 
hle, the celebrated poet of the Huguenots ; Meyerbeer, the king of modern art, 
the man who has made even Rossini draw back, the triumphant Meyerbeer ! 
And do you know what music it was, that I had heard during the night? It was 
the already burning sketch, the first cries, the sudden griefs, the passions of that 
new drama, called Le Prophete, which no one has yet heard except myself, in 
my sleeping-i-oom at the Hotel des Princes. 

Such was my initiation into the mysteries of Parisian art ; it was a happy 
eoramencement. 



MORNING THE MILKWOMAN THE GMSETTK. 21 



CHAPTER VI. 



"Wh£N I awoke — or, to speak more correctly, when I thought it was time to 
awake, for I had scarcely closed ray eyes, to escape the enchantment which sur- 
rounded me — all Paris was stirring near my hotel. It was no longer the prom- 
enade of the evening before, so listless and so idle, under the trees of the boule- 
vard ; it was the quick and jostling motion of an immense city, which hastens 
to its business. There is no city in the world which passes more easily than 
Paris, from motion to repose, from business to pleasure ; she is as ready to gain 
gold, as to spend it liberally. In Italy, when the angelus rings (the bell which 
announces the commencement of a particular prayer), every profane thought is 
immediately arrested. The young lover forgets to press the hand of his mis- 
tress, that he may make the sign of the cross ; the next minute, every passion 
takes the upper hand, until the angrlus rings again. The Frenchman of 
Paris is a kind of idolater, like the Italian of Naples or Rome ; only, that which 
stops him in the midst of his perpetual motion, is not the angelus, it is pleasure. 
There are times in the day when the busiest Parisian necessarily reposes. For 
instance, at five o'clock in the evening, all the labor of Paris, so active and so 
ardent in the day, ceases and stops suddenly, as if by enchantment ; but to make 
amends for this, at seven in the morning, life, motion, eager speculation, the 
gambling of the bourse, intrigues round the ministers, intrigues in the saloon, 
the labor of thought, the labor of the body, the hurried races through the city, 
the life of the manoeuverer, and the life of the statesman — all commence at the 
same time; suddenly the deserted streets are filled with a crowd of sellers and 
buyers ; the Parisian silence is broken, by a thousand different pitiless cries. 

At this hour, everything is sold in the streets; the milkwoman arrives, drawn 
by her horse, and establishes herself under a porte-cochere — there surrounded 
by her tin cans, as a sovereign king is siirrounded by his guards, and defended 
by her faithful bull-dog, much better than the king of the French is defended 
by the police — the milkwoman is enthroned, and reigns for two hours. This 
was my amusement every morning. How many times I have placed myself at 
the window, only for the purpose of seeing this youthful and solemn peasant, 
distributing here and there, right and left, with an avaricious hand, her pure milk 
mixed with fresh water I Round the milkwoman, crowd incessantly the chamber- 
maids of the neighboring houses; these are, for the most part (I speak of those 
in the Rue de Richelieu), young and pretty girls, with fair skins, rosy cheeks, 
good figures, mischievous looks, and little feet. There is a whole future of three 
years of love, in all these young and pretty slaves of Parisian coquetry. They 
come, one after the other, or at the same time, for their daily supply of milk, 
holding in their hands, jugs, more or less aristocratic, by which the mistresses 
they serve, may easily be recognised ; for the pretty girls themselves, all wear a 
similar costume, namely, flowing dresses, fine white stockings, fanciful neck- 
handkerchiefs, and round their small heads, Indian foulards, coquettishly and 
tastily arranged, turned, and twisted, so that nothing is prettier or more graceful 
than their little mischievous heads, enveloped in silk, variegated with a thousand 
colors. And what excitement in those little heads, and what beatings of heart 
under these transparent handkerchiefs, and how well those small white necks 
are set off by the black, glossy hair ! It is a charming female population truly! 

Some of them come, alert and joyous, carrying beautiful china jugs ; they 
scarcely condescend to look whether the measure is full; they hardly appear to 
recognise the haughty milk-woman. These are the aristocrats of the ante- 
room ; they will soon themselves become great ladies, and have servants in their 
turn. Such changes of fortune are not rare in Paris. Beauty, youth, this 
gentillesse, as it is prettily called in French (and I know no English word that 
will express it), bring about these changes every day. She who was the servant 



22 THE BONNE THE PORTERESS. 

becomes the mistress of the mistress. Then she throws aside her Indian foulard 
for an Italian chapeau, her printed calico dress for a silk one, the blooming joy 
of her twenty years for a cold prudish look. All the waiting-maids of Paris 
will become great ladies, naturally and without trouble, if you will only give 
them the opportunity ! 

After these noble waiting-maids, come other servants not so high, but equally 
good-looking ; these are in attendance upon the citizens. They have scarcely 
one foot in Parisian luxury. Until their ambitious views are realized by admis- 
sion into the establishment of some fine lady, they do as they can, and serve a 
whole household. The morning is, for these young persons, the hour of liber- 
ty ; they tell the milkwoman their little vexations of the previous evening, their 
hopes for the day ; with these ephemeral beings, the whole of life is summed up 
in these words, last evening., this morning ! The^ never say to-morrow ; to-mor- 
row is so far off! 

Very soon arrives, in her turn, the useful servant, that serious melancholy 
being, whom the Parisian, by a singular irony calls his bonne. The bonne is 
the tyrant of the house ; she only has a will of her own, and does just as she 
pleases. She beats the children, she scolds the husband, she is a spy upon 
madame, she favors certain friends of the family, and shuts the door upon cer- 
tain others. This cruel despotism is, nevertheless, tolerated by all the poor 
citizens, who do not know how to shake it off, without being obliged themselves 
to undertake the little details of household economy. As to being free men, 1 
know nothing less free, strictly speaking than the citizen of Paris. He obeys 
everybody, except himself. He obeys his wife, who, up to thirty years of age, 
is a frivolous coquette, and when past thirty, is peevish and spiteful. He obeys 
his children, who are all little prodigies ; he carries them in his arms while in- 
fants, and afterward upon his shoulders. He obeys his bonne, and this is a perfect 
obedience ; he only eats when his bonne makes him, he only drinks when his 
bonne allows him, he rises and goes to bed at the command of his bonne, even 
the dog of his bonne he must take out to walk, and wo be to him, if he forgets 
to caress her cat. Poor man! And perhaps you think these are all his tyrants? 
Undeceive yourself. There is below, at the door of his house, a tyrant, a spy, 
a calumniator, always ready, always awake, always prejudiced against the citizen. 
This tyrant, this spy, this calumniator, is the porteress, or the porter of the 
house ; sometimes, it is both combined. 

The porteress leaves home after the bonne, and when the waiting-woman has 
returned with her milk. The waiting-maid is too young, and has too many 
pleasant and fine things to do, to sympathize much with the bonne, who is forty 
years old, and the porteress who is sixty. There are some virtues which it 
seems natural, and therefore easy for youth to practise. Thus the young ser- 
vant condescends to take very little part in this dirty babbling, this underhand 
slander. Lisette or Julia is rather the friend of her mistress than her sei-vant ; 
she knows her most concealed secrets, she is naturally initiated into the myste- 
ries of this boudoir which she shares. It is she who dresses her mistress in the 
morning, who undresses her at night ; she sees the tears in her eyes, she hears 
the sighs that issue from her heart, she notices her joyous smile, she is always 
on her mistress's side, that is, for the lover and against the husband. These 
are the employments, the pleasures, and the business of Lisette. Young wo- 
men understand each other so easily and so well. They are so fond of anything 
connected with love! Love equalizes ranks so quickly! How then could 
Lisette join with these two rapacious, discontented, jealous old women — the por- 
teress and the bonne ? Lisette, when she has obtained her milk, slowly ascends 
the staircaise, and goes to prepare her own breakfast and that of her mistress, 
recalling meantime that madame returned yesterday very late, and without her 
bouquet ; that she had forgotten her right hand glove, and was so agitated, so 
happy. Lisette and her mistress breakfast, this morning, from the same bread, 
from the same supply of milk, and perhaps from the same cup. People at 
twenty years old eat so little ! 

Do you see that equivocal being with inquiring looks, slanderous mouth, and 



SCANDAL CAFE AU LAIT. 23 

twisted hair? That is the porteress. The porteress is naturally a malicious 
being. Every house in Paris has its porteress nestled in a hole at the foot of 
the staircase ; and from the bottom of this hole, this bloodshot and malevolent 
eye observes all who go in, and all who go out. These ears of King Midas listen 
to all that is- said, and all that is not said ; she questions, she expounds, even si- 
lence; and from the bottom of its hole, this poisonous serpent's tongue casts its 
venom, on the most irreproachable people in the house. The porteress is 
calumny personified ; she tears, with her black nails, every reputation that is 
intrusted to her. Listen I Hear her repeating at the corner of the street to 
the milkwoman, all the histories, true or false, of the house that is under her 
care. On the first floor the bailiff will pay a visit to-morrow; this mother beats 
her children ; those children beat their mother ; this gentleman quarrels with 
his wife ; that wife steals her husband's clothes. Do you know why the people 
on the third floor have bought a pot of flowers? And that person on the fourth 
who came home the other day in a hackney-coach with the blinds down ? Every 
day a flood of calumnies pours round the milkwoman, I will not say like her 
milk, but like the mud in the streets. The bonne, not to be outdone by the 
porteress, improves upon the stories of the latter. The honne knows fewer his- 
tories than the porteress, but then she know them better. She sees her victims 
nearer. She recounts then, how her master, the other day, pawned his plate ; 
how her mistress borrowed a shawl or a veil of one of her friends, to wear to the 
theatre. And these horrible Megseras descant principally, on the misery of 
their masters. It seems to be their greatest delight to calculate the ruin of the 
man whose bread they eat, and under whose roof they dwell. Is it not sad and 
painful, to see such a debate carried on, every morning, round a can of milk ? 
Milk, that innocent beverage, that drink of the Idyl, that poetical emblem of 
purity; milk, so often sung by Theocritus and Virgil; milk, which thus be- 
comes in every corner of Paris, a sort of muddy stream, round which are col- 
lected all the anteroom falsehoods, and all the kitchen slanders of the neigh- 
borhood! 

And what will surprise you not a little, is, that in Paris all the houses (I mean 
the richest and handsomest, and best inhabited) are subjected to this frightful 
despotism ! Here is the hotel of a nobleman; the exterior is magnificent; gold 
and silk glisten in the drapery of the windows ; the court is full of English 
horses and richly emblazoned carriages. Enter. Before seeing the master and 
mistress of this beautiful place, you are forced to come in contact with a dirty 
porteress, who is washing her linen in a tub, her child, who is roasting meat at 
the corner of the fire, or her husband, who is making shoes in the darkest cor- 
ner of his den ; all which proves, that nothing is perfect under the sun. 

And when each house has thus received its supply of milk, the stove is light- 
ed, the morning cofl"ee is made, and it is not until the coflee has been sipped, that 
the Parisian day begins. 

To speak the truth, this cafe au lait is sorry stuflf, and very diflicult of diges- 
tion. It is composed of a little hot water, resembling milk, a black roasted 
powder, pounded and pulverized at the grocer's, and beet-root sugar ; and is ac- . 
companied by a small piece of bread. Such is the current and daily breakfast 
of cits and citesses, sei-vants and masters. A great politician has calculated, 
that the surest method of stopping a revolution, or suspending a Parisian tu- 
mult, would be to close the barrier against the milkwomen. This passion for 
cafe au lait is so great, that under the empire, and during the continental war, 
the Parisian paid eighteen francs a pound for coff"ee, and as much for sugar, that 
he might not be deprived of his usual breakfast. At that time, he who was rich 
enough still to have his coff'ee and sugar, breakfasted at his gate or window, 
from vanity. Many took their coffee without sugar, as the Arabians do. Even 
now, when coffee and sugar are very common commodities, you may see pla- 
carded in Paris, chestnut coffee, heet-root coffee, and all sorts of coffee, in which 
there is everything but coffee. This horrible decoction has the double advan- 
tage, of affording no sustenance to the man who drinks it, and giving to the af- 
fected women who take it, a livid and sickly paleness, which much resembles 



24 THE MILKWOMAN — THE CAFE DE TORTONI. 

the jaundice. I hope these are details a la Trollope. sufficient to please you. 
What amused me most, in this study of the little Parisian world, was, to see 
the milUwoman, at last, when all her milk was exhausted, put her cans again 
into her little cart, gather up the reins of her horse, whistle to her terrible bull- 
dog, and set out at a hand-trot, throwing, as she passed, an ironical glance of 
contempt, at those foolish houses, where the young servants are as coquettish 
as their mistresses, and where the old servants are so many insatiable despots. 
Stupid houses ! that take Seine water for pure milk, and that nourish at their 
gates, those venomous reptiles called porters. 

I fancied I could hear the milkwoman, a robust and intelligent peasant, 
speaking thus to herself: "Fools! I take from your city, two things, which 
YOU would never receive from us peasants — I carry off your money and your 
secrets." 



CHAPTER VII. 

THE CAFE DE TORTONI. 



It is granted, then, that the Parisian takes but little breakfast. He has too 
much to do, and then his business is too important. He is persuaded that a 
more substantial breakfast would take from him the free exercise of his ambi- 
tion, his projects, his avarice, and his passions. If a Parisian wishes his head 
to be clear, his stomach must be clear also. The precautions of the man ma- 
chine are not pushed farther than this. There is however, one place, in Paris, 
much frequented, where people breakfast in earnest, or at least appear to do so. 
It is the Cafe Tortoni. 

The Cafe Tortoni is known throughout Europe. It is situated on the boule- 
vard, almost at the angle of the Rue Lafitte, or as it ought to be called, the 
Rue Rothschild, that money-making street. There is no stranger, who, on 
some summer's evening, has not rested, in the brilliant and lighted shadow of 
the Cafe Tortoni. It is the general rendezvous of the fashionable world ; stop 
there you must, on leaving the opera. Even the ladies resort there, in their 
elegaiit dresses, in the beautiful clear evenings of summer. At Tortoni's, in 
the evening, ice assumes all sorts of names, and every kind of form. The rich- 
est equipages surround this living ice-house, with a triple enclosure of liveries 
and English horses. This is the Tortoni of the evening ; but the Tortoni of 
the morning presents quite a different appearance. Yesterday, in retiring, the 
Tortoni of the evening said in a low voice, " Business to-morrow :" to-day, the 
Tortoni of the morning does not even take time to say, "Pleasure this evening." 
Indeed the Tortoni of the morning, is nothing more than the peristyle of the 
Bourse, that great temple, or rather that vast gulf of public fortune. To this 
cafe, you see hastening every morning, all the elegant exchange brokers, all the 
novices in banking, all the marrons of any weight. These gentlemen arrive, 
dressed and gloved, as if they were going to a ball. The horse stops before the 
door of the cafe, the master descends from it, and his first visit is to the side- 
board, where he himself chooses his breakfast : but, in giving himself up to this 
important occupation, he looks, listens, bows ; he has a wary as well as a hungry 
expression. He calls aloud for the waiter, " Quick, quick ! I have no time to 
wait." Poor man ! he has so much to do to-day. Nevertheless he seats him- 
self at a table, and is soon surrounded by others. They say, " Good morning," 
to each other, without meaning any harm. Then, by a certain tortuosity, which 
belongs only to the rhetoric of these gentlemen, they question each other. 
" What is there new ? What is going on ?" " Really nothing." " Madame 
Stoltz v/as in very good voice, the day before yesterday." " M. Berryer was 



THE NEWS MONET. 25 

excellent in the chamber." "The king has gone to inspect the fortificalions." 
" M. le Due d'Aumale was met in the Rue Blanche." " M..de Chateaubriand 
is ill." " M. de Rothschild has just obtained the grand cross of the Legion 
d'Honneur." " Have you seen the new pamphlet called Les Boutons de Gue- 

tres? It is very severe." " The little Baron C has run away ; he has lost 

a hundred thousand crowns at the Bourse." " What do you say ? a hundred 
thousand crowns ? Three millions, my dear sir. My father-in-law's cousin is 
in for eight hundred thousand francs." " You know the news about the great 
tragedian ?" " The English are most certainly beaten in India." " There is 
nothing new, besides this, except that the minister of war blew his brains out 
yesterday evening." "What! the minister of war ?" " Perfectly true. He 
was accused of wearing the cross of a knight of the Legion d'Honneur without 
authority." " What ! had not the minister of war a croix d'honneur ?" " It 
seems not." " Nonsense ; I have seen him with the grand cordon.'''' 

Thus talk our two newsmongers, only they forget to name, that it is the Bel- 
gian minister of war, of whom they are speaking. You, however, an innocent 
foreigner, who happen to hear the conversation of these honest men, think them 
very artless and simple, and you do not understand that trifling and important things 
are' thus mingled : you are a new comer, my friend. All these men, who seem 
so young, so simple, and so good, — who so unaffectedly eat their chicken's wing, 
and drink reddened water, — are not so simple as they seem : they are all know- 
ing ones, among the most knowing. At the present moment they look as in- 
nocent as you really are. Well! There is not one of these artless persons, who 
has not read every newspaper, of every side ; who has not listened eagerly to the 
most opposite reports ; not one who, during the night, has not given his attention 
to the one ambition, the one glory, the one thought of his life, — money. To 
gain money, to gain much of it, to gain it always, in order to spend it, with a care- 
lessness which savors of delirium, this is the trade of these people. And what 
care does it require, to watch, at once, over themselves and others ! What 
judgment is necessary, to understand, at the same time, the most difficult truths, 
and the most opposite falsehoods ! What unwearied patience, in seeking and 
waiting for the turn of fortune ; and what great courage in striking the decisive 
blow, when the moment to strike has come ! What an absorbing ambition is 
this ambition for money ; and what must be the torture, of these Tantaluses of 
the Bourse, who see flowing before them, the stream of French riches, and who 
incessantly stoop, to draw plentifully from this flood of gold, which recedes be- 
fore their dazzled eyes, and with what supplicatory prayers, do they ask of 
chance, the drop of water which shall refresh their greedy throats ! It is curious 
to study these men. Their part is played with so much ease ; — they are such 
excellent actors ; — they have studied so closely, the grace and movements of 
the cat watching the mouse ! However, as I told you, every morning, they af- 
fect to come and breakfast gayly, and with perfect freedom of heart and mind. 

At this hour of the day, these money-hunters are still civilized men : they 
have the manners of the world ; they salute each other with grace and polite- 
ness, with the grace and politeness of two professed duellists, who will very soon 
try to kill each other. 

To strangers, the sight of this assemblage of speculators, is one full of interest 
and curiosity ; the more so, because by the side of the wealthy financiers, you 
will find the youngest outside jobbers; those who make their first attempts, 
those who go every day, gleaning obscurely in the five per cents., picking up 
something in the three per cents., negotiating treasury bills, or the shares of the 
Banque de France, buying or reselling the city bonds, of which they secure the 
first premium; dabbling in Neapolitan, Spanish, and Portuguese funds by small 
and imperceptible fractions, — Ouvrards and Rothschilds in embryo. 

Suddenly a particular hour strikes mournfully. That very instant, all break- 
fast is stopped, all conversation is interrupted ; he who had just put the cup to 
his lips, returns it to the table half full ; another rises, without finishing the 
speech he had commenced ; each mounts his carriage, and the horses gallop off. 

These intelligent steeds — bankers in harness — know well the hour for the 



26 BUSINESS HOURS. ADVERTISEMENTS. 

Bourse ; more than one English horse, has become broken-winded, merely in 
going over the hundred paces >Yliich separate the boulevard from the Bourse. 
Money goes so quickly ! 

But there is something which travels even faster than money, and that is ruin! 



CHAPTER VIII. 

BUSINESS HOURS. 



Some other day, we will go to the Bourse, but since we are in this splendid 
cafe, let us rest here a little. Already the streets of Paris are less full, than they 
were but a moment back. The crowd was on its way to business, which having 
reached, let us wait till it returns. Paris is as regular at the sea ; it has its ebb 
and flow, at certain times in the day. The cafe, a few minutes ago, so full of 
silent passions, is now nearly empty. Some deputies of the iiers-parii breakfast 
quietly, without any fear of arriving too late, at the chamber, for the session will 
be very tedious; M. Falchiron is to speak in favor of French tragedy, and to 
protect Corneille, Racine, and Voltaire, against the innovators. In another 
corner, you see a musician of the Opera, who is waiting for the time of rehearsal, 
and who is constantly looking at his watch. 

In the street you may notice moving under the walls, with a light step, several 
fine ladies about to return home ; the hour of the Bourse is to them the hour 
of liberty, and they profit by it, though ashamed of being such early risers. 
Those tall, fair, young people have just arrived from England, they are paying 
their first visit to Paris, and are surprised to meet so few people. Here are 
Germans, who travel as philosophers ; Italian refugees, who have saved from 
Italian liberty, the noble wreck, nothing but a hundred thousand livres which 
they come to spend in Paris, far from Spielberg ; here are wretched, proscribed 
Poles, whose ancient fortune has dwindled into a million or two, carried off, by 
a lucky chance, in their pockets. In a word, this street is the rendezvous of all 
the rich idlers, or, if you prefer it, of all the idlers. A short time since, money 
was the theme of conversation ; now they talk of canes, whips, dogs, and the 
newest fashions. As for horses, the great subject of Parisian conversation, this 
is not the place to talk of them. There is a club in Paris established expressly 
fortius exciting gossip. But do not trust the fine young men who talk incessant- 
ly of their stables. In the Parisian fashionable world, "my horse" is, generally, 
an imagination, — price, two francs the ride. 

If you are a person of ever so little observation, you will remark, in one room 
at the cafe, a small frame, of a very unpretending appearance. Within this 
little frame, are enclosed the advertisements of the Parisian dandies, in writing. 
On these small pieces of paper, you will read an endless succession of such an- 
nouncements, as the following — To sell, a cabriolet almost new. — To sell, a til- 
bury which lias been very little used. — To sell, an English berlin. — To sell, a set 
of Brune's harness, as good as new. — To sell, two horses. — A horse. — A pretty 
little mare. — A fowling piece. — An Etruscan vase. In this little frame, ruined 
young men put up at auction, their luxury of the evening before, for the purpose 
of half paying their creditors of the morrow. I was in need of a horse and cab- 
riolet, and soon found what I wanted, in a frame of which I speak. "Monsieur," 
said the seller to me, " with your permission, I will sell you the horse and cabriolet, 
and give you the servant besides." 

" Monsieur," said the servant, "three months' wages are owing to me." I soon 
obtained cabriolet, horse, and seiTant, for very little money ; but the horse proved 
to be broken-winded, the axle-tree of the cabriolet broke the second day, and the 
man paid himself with my watch, for the three months' wages his old master 
owned him. 



THE CHATEAU DES TUILERIES. LOUIS XVI. 27 

When I complained to the man at the cafe — " Monsieur," said he, "you would 
have had them all much cheaper, if you had waited, till Shrove Tuesday or Ash 
"Wednesday. At that time, an English horse of six years old, will not sell for 
more than a hundred crowns, and you get the cabriolet into the bargain." 



CHAPTER IX. 

THE CHATEAU DES TUILERIES. 

Since the revolution of July, the Chateau des Tuileries has increased in im- 
portance. Formerly, it was simply the palace of the king. This palace was 
surrounded by soldiers, the yeomen of the guard, Helvetians, with swords much 
longer than they were sharp, soldiers much more singular than useful ; the body 
guards, beautiful gilt coats-of-mail, proof against everything, noble hearts, skilful 
men ; the crowd of ladies, who restored as far as possible the ancient regime, 
if not with the ancient French wit and grace, at least with the same obsequious 
obedience ; — such were the inhabitants and masters of this vast chateau. The 
king was the principal person, shut up within the gates of his own Louvre, he 
was the chief slave of this restored etiquette, he submitted without complaining, 
and as one of the conditions of his melancholy royalty, to the daily assaults of 
those priests and gentlemen who imposed themselves upon the legitimate king 
in their right of legitimate clergy and legitimate nobility. In fact, these three 
legitimacies were of equal value, — they were all three built on the same sand. 
The Chateau des Tuileries, protected by the body-guards, attended by the 
gentlemen in waiting, filled with priests and women, asthmatic old men, and blue 
ribands, was a kind of paradox, thrown out by some unskilful rhetorician, in this 
constitutional country, — an innocent and harmless paradox, and attached to 
truths certainly incontestable, but now gone out of fashion ; the old monarchy, 
the old creeds, the old nobility. But a people less skeptical and less new was 
necessary for all these respectable old things. 

Now that royalty, that mysterious soul of the political world, has undergone 
the greatest and most bloody outrages, how can any king whatever dream for a 
moment of escaping this new law of European monarchy, which says to him 
every morning, "Remember that you are a king," that is to say, subject to all 
the vicissitudes of other men. Nihil kumani alienwn! And is it to be imagined 
that the French, during the last thirty years, have sufficiently outraged their old 
idol, their old pride, their old passion, nay more, their imperishable passion, 
royalty ? No ! nothing has been able to satisfy that sudden fury which has 
seized the nation for thirty years, and which incessantly urges it to attack every 
power, good or bad, usurped or lawful ; it is enough that the king has power. 
These Frenchmen, who were the Frenchmen, or rather the mutes, of that despot 
Louis XIV., went one morning to Versailles, to look for the king and queen, 
the royal child, and all the family, predestined to misfortune ; and brought them, 
amid the loud execrations of the market-women, and the furious curses of the 
faubourgs, through all that could easily be found, of vice and blood, cruelty, 
corruption, cowardice, and infamy, to this same Chateau des Tuileries, aston- 
ished at such fury ; and which, from that time, has been nothing more than the 
great hotel of kings. 

I speak not of Charles X., the improvident gentleman, or of M. le Dau- 
phin, the last born in this city of the Bourbons, the last echo of so many power- 
ful voices, the last effort of so much energy, the last representative of so many 
heroes ; of the Dutchess de Berri, in spite of her devotedness, loyalty, and 
courage ; but I do ask how the dauphiness, who had been tried by misfortunes, 
greater than the most pitiless dramatic poets ever imagined, the dauphiness, that 
spoilt child of adversity, which did not spare her one of its most severe or most 



28 THE DUTCHESS d'aNGOULEME— MADAME ELIZABETH. 

unjust lessons, how could she seriously take possession of the Palace des Tuile- 
ries ? How could she, the stoical Christian, restored to these walls by a mira- 
cle, dare to think of taking up her abode in them ? Had she, like Charles X., 
and like the dauphin, forgotten the dreadful history, written in characters of 
blood, upon the walls of the Tuileries ? There is in the garden of the Tuileries 
a walk, across which the people put a green riband, to testify that it was sepa- 
rated for ever from the royalty of France. . This was a wall of brass ; no 
fidelity dared to cross it ; an imprudent young man, who had put his foot 
beyond, this terrible rubicon, took off his shoe before the people, and with 
his coat wiped off the royal dust ! The wind of seventeen hundred and ninety- 
three carried away this green riband, but the sad barrier between the people of 
France and the children of St. Louis, has never been removed; if the dauphiness 
had placed herself at the window, she might still have seen, with her eagle eyes, 
that impassable barrier; but from what window of this palace would the dau- 
phiness have dared to look upon the people of Paris ? At each of its windows 
King Louis XVL, summoned to appear, had been personally insulted ! At 
each of its windows, the queen, that unfortunate Antoinette of Austria, called 
by the drunken voices of the furies of the guillotine, was forced to appear, night 
and day, and hold out to this abominable people her supplicating hands and her 
child! I can scarcely conceive, while I think of it, that this family of proscribed 
kings should have dared to pass the threshold of the Chateau des Tuileries, so 
filled with disastrous remembrances. In this place is a door, through which 
Louis XVL entered, as if he were a captive thrown into prison ; in this palace 
is a door, through which Louis XVL passed, on his way to the prison of the 
Temple ; in this palace, there is the bed of the queen of France, which, while 
yet warm, was profaned by bloody bayonets. And yet this was the palace 
they would inhabit! this was the bed in which they thought to sleep! 
Madmen ! 

Very soon this king, turned out of the dishonored palace of the Tuileries, was 
led from the prison of the Temple, his last palace, to the scaffold, his last 
throne. This time, at least, death saved the king from insult ; on this bloody 
throne, they cut off his head, but they did not crown it with the cap of liberty ! 
The blow, although more honorable, was not less complete. The men, who 
were at first astonished at the abundance of tears shed by the eyes of their Icings, 
finished by being astonished at the small quantity of blood contained in their veins. 
This murdered king descended into the tomb a few hours before his clergy and 
nobility, whose heads were severed by the same knife. Some months later, the 
queen herself — yes, the queen, that noble wife, that sublime but unhappy 
mother — laid down her head for the executioner: that head turned gray, alas! by 
grief, in four-and-twenty hours. Seven months afterward, Madame Elizabeth, 
that excellent and pious young woman, ascended with a light foot the slippery 
steps of that sad altar, upon which she was about to receive the crown of the 
martyr. Suddenly the people, who were already inattentive to the royal blood, 
which was about to flow (they had seen so much royal blood) ! were struck with 
the bosom of this young woman, whose handkerchief had just fallen. But Eliza- 
beth, rousing at last from the calm resignation which characterized her, and 
seeing her bosom bare before this people, to whom she owed only her head, en- 
treated the executioner to cover her (her hands were tied), and the executioner, 
more humane than his assistants, the people of seventeen hundred and ninety- 
three, covered that beautiful bosom, so agitated by modesty, which the fear of 
death had not disturbed. Does not this recall to you the touching lines of the 
French poet? — 

" Elle tombe, et tombant, range ses vetements, 
Dernier trait de pudeur, a ses dernicrs moments." 

Meantime, the young dauphin, a child of seven years old, incapable of injuring 
any one, suffered the most cruel treatment from the cobbler Simon, which finally 



THE DIRECTORY — THE EVIL GENIUS OF THE TUILERIES. 29 

ended in his death, fourteen months after that of Madame Ehzabeth. And this 
is what tlie Chateau des Tuileries did with its last inhabitants. 

Wo to the dignity witliered from its root by popular insult ! wo to the palaces 
of kings, destroyed even from their foundations ! What is struck by a thunder- 
bolt may often be repaired. The spires of cathedrals have been broken off by 
lightning, but they have been restored to their places by skilful workmen. Where 
is the workman powerful enough to restore one of the four pieces of gilt wood, 
and change the piece of velvet, of which a throne is composed ? Neither the 
palace of the Tuileries, nor that of Versailles, has ever recovered from so many 
regicides. When, by means of bloody liberty, by means of victories without, 
and defeats within, France bad fallen under the despised and licentious yoke of 
the Director}' — the effeminate Barras and his worthy colleagues, those three 
men v/ho possessed every kind of audacity, even the audacity of fear, dared not 
inhabit the Chateau des Tuileries. Its solitude frightened them ; the history 
written upon its walls made ihem turn pale, and tremble from the depth of their 
souls ; they fancied there must be, at midnight — the hour for spectres — in these 
royal dwellings, royal shadows, beheaded ghosts, who carried their crowns upon 
their necks, for want of heads ; a royal widow, with long white hair, who re- 
turned from the dead, dressed in the short gown which an actress was charitable 
enough to lend her, and the black robe which she had mended with her own 
hands, before marching to the scaffold. Barras was afraid — that ambitious prof- 
ligate, who succeeded for an hour, because he found himself on a level with the 
vice of his time — even he, dared not take possession of the queen's bed ; he was 
afraid that he should scarcely fall asleep before the great king Louis XIV., im- 
pelled by the pride of his race, would cause the silent pavement to ring with his 
red heel, and would himself draw the curtains of the bed, and ask this wretched 
being, lying there in the midst of the Tuileries, and upon the fleurs-de-lis of 
France, what was his name of Bourbon, and what place his reign occupied, 
among so many reigns. The Directory left the Tuileries deserted ; its life of 
every day — its nights of revelling — the intermission from its slavery — the com- 
binations of this Venetian policy, Venetian from its vice and its horror — its 
alarms caused both by its victories and defeats ; the Directory concealed all 
these in the palace of the Luxembourg — that palac.e built in the Italian style, 
by the Italian Medicis. 

A most interesting history might be written of the Chateau des Tuileries. In 
this city of Paris, which certainly is not credulous, more than one of the people 
will gravely assure you that the palace of the Tuileries is inhabited by an evil 
genius, the little red man, who shows himself at certain fatal epochs. He was 
seen in 1814 — he was seen in 1830 — he was seen walking round the flag the day 
the duke of Orleans died. Thus the Chateau des Tuileries has now its legend ; 
the people are afraid of it, they who usually fear nothing, and every new-comer 
into power feels the same dread. 

It was only Napoleon Bonaparte, when he had played v/itb fire and sword, who 
(with the glory and the innocence of a life which had belonged neither to the 
past royalty nor to the past republicanism of France, which were nevertheless 
the first foundations of his power) dared, like a king, to take possession of the 
chateau of the Tuileries. This improvident great man, having reached the 
height of human power, fancied he had also attained the summit of royal power. 
He thought that if there were breaches in the palace of the Tuileries, it was 
easy to fill them up with stone ; that if there was blood upon the walls, they had 
only to purify them with quick-lime ; that if its gates had been forced, they must 
be surrounded with cannon ; and that for body-guards and yeomen, he had 
Aboukir, Jena, Wagram, Austerlitz I He fancied that the history of France 
commenced with him, the emperor I that the royalty of France began with him, 
the emperor ! that he had only to retake his crown from the treasury, his am- 
pulla at Rheims, his oriflamme at St. Denis ; and, if he had had time, he would 
have commenced an action against the ancient race of Saint Louis, for having 
occupied his Tuileries, and for having usurped his throne so long. So strong 
was his belief in his own good fortune. 



30 USURPATION OP THE BOURBONS — NAPOLEON — LOUIS XVIII. 

Who knows ? — there is such an imperceptible influence in the places which 
men inhabit. But a few minutes back, you were gay and joyous ; but suddenly 
your guide stops you on the ruins of some destroyed city, conqoos ubi Troja fuit, 
and at once your smile is arrested, and you have become quite pensive. I doubt 
whether Voltaire himself — if he had, on a lovely summer's evening, entered a 
holy cathedral, half lighted by the sun's last rays, and if he had found himself 
alone in the shadow of the painted windows, amid the last perfume of the in- 
cense, and the last sighs of the organ — would not have thrown himself upon his 
knees, like a devoted catholic, at the feet of that Savior whom he had so often 
blasphemed ! Thus perhaps the chateau of the Tuileries had its inevitable in- 
fluence upon the young first consul of a republic already worm-eaten, although 
it had existed but ten years. From the height of those solemn arches descended 
upon Bonaparte the constant remembrance of the absolute power which had 
raised these walls ; the echo of the vast saloons incessantly repeated peremptory 
orders ; and besides, this palace had been built by subjects for their master ; thus 
the first consul soon found himself in a position to be emperor. He occupied 
the Tuileries — then he was its master ; he was seated on the throne — then he 
ought to reign ; he sent, therefore, for the pope, to crown him emperor and king, 
as he afterward sent for an archdutchess of Austria, to make him an imperial 
dauphin. Would he ever have dared to say to the emperor of Austria, " Send 
me your daughter,'''' if he had not inhabited the palace of the Tuileries — if he 
could not have scanned with a glance, this vast assemblage of domes, palaces, 
and gardens — if he had not said to himself, " This is surely a worthy kingdom for 
an emperess, for a daughter of the Cesars ?" 

But the Emperor Napoleon did not feel himself sufiiciently a king to remain 
shut up within these noble walls. Scarcely did he give himself time to people 
the Tuileries with chamberlains, guards, masters of the ceremonies, purveyors, 
pages, maids of honor, gentlemen, princes, dukes, barons — in a word, scarcely 
had he peopled this palace of kings, according to the ancient royal etiquette, 
with all the useless, embroidered, and powdered frivolities, which compose what 
is called a court, before he left the palace to return to the camp, and abandoned 
his courtiers to rejoin his soldiers : royalty for victory ! He thus escaped from 
this threatening dwelling, this sinister influence, this usurped palace — the only 
thing he had usurped — for he had conquered glory, victory, and power. So he 
fell for what he usurped, not for what he conquered. 

When the Bourbons — recalled by the lassitude of France, by the arms of Eu- 
rope, and by M. de Chateaubriand — returned at last to the Tuileries, they could 
hardly believe their own happiness. They thought of none of the misfortunes 
of which these ceilings had been the indifferent witnesses ; their first care was 
to efface from the walls the imperial eagles which unfolded their weary wings 
upon them, and which held in their enervated talons the leaf of withered laurel. 
The whole palace was assiduously scraped, as if an infectious person had just 
quitted it. Alas ! it was something more melancholy than a man who had died 
of the plague ; it was the greatest power of his age who had been overturned. 
When the palace of Louis XVHI. had been newly painted stone-color, and his 
bed had b?en refitted, he took possession of his throne, and stretched himself 
upon his bed, feeling much more at his ease than he had ever been in his Eng- 
lish kingdom of Hartwell. Louis XVIH., who was nevertheless said to be a 
man of sense, was so persuaded of the imperishable eternity of his legitimate 
rights, this new principle as old as all revolutions, which he brought back to 
light, that it never for a single instant occurred to him that he was simply living 
in a prohibited house, an inn badly kept and badly guarded, always open to every 
wind of adversity. Worse still, he smiled complacently at the departure of the 
allied armies, his protectors ; and instead of entreating the last Cossack to re- 
main, he saw him set off with that Voltairian laugh which never quitted him. 
This king did not understand that, without Cossacks, his royalty was too old, 
and his charter too young, to defend him. The consequence of this false secu- 
rity was, that a courier from the frontiers knocked suddenly one night at the 
gate of the Tuileries. His knock was that of a man who brought bad news : 



SUDDEIT CHANGES AT THE TUILERIES — THE PEACE OF 1815. 31 

he was told that the king slept, but his answer was that he must immediately be 
awakened ; for there had been seen on the road a little man in a small hat, 
dressed in gray, with his hands crossed behind him, who arrived on foot and 
alone, with his sword in its scabbard, again to take the constitutional throne of 
France from its legitimate kings. Thus said the courier, and he would take 
no reward for the intelligence ; he chose it should be an act of charity to the 
house of Bourbon. 

Louis XVIII. was obliged to quit this furnished house, as speedily as if it had 
been on fire. He did not even stop, to have the sheets taken from his bed, or to 
secure his prescriptions from his room. On the other hand, the emperor ar- 
rived so quickly, that he found the room in disorder, the physic scattered, and 
chicken-bones half picked, under the bed. This last incident, I was told 
by a person, who entered the emperor's bedroom just as he was surveying it. 
"Look," said he; " as if it were not enough to make a kitchen of my bed- 
room, they ha\se made a dog-kennel of it." 

How many nights, did the Emperor Napoleon pass in the palace, of which he 
had thus regained possession? and how many hours of sleep did he enjoy there? 
What exclamations of despair were heard by these walls ? What groans repeated 
the echo ? What did this great fallen emperor do, the night that he vainly sought 
in the skies, the eclipsed light of his star ? He would have given the rest of his 
hundred days, for one hour's sleep. Yet Louis XVIII. had slept upon this 
volcano of the Tuileries, for it is a privilege, belonging to the divine right of 
kings, that they can sleep upon the divinity of their power ; it is the bolster up- 
on which royal heads repose. But the Emperor Napoleon, king by force of 
arms, made emperor by victory, upon what could he sleep, now that he had nei- 
ther power nor victory, to protect his slumbers ? Kings by divine right, even 
when they do not believe in God, believe in themselves. In themselves their 
divinity resides; an infallible divinity. This is why, King Louis XVIII. slept 
on the eve of the hundred days ; this is why, Charles X. played whist on the 
last of the three days. But the emperor, as long as he was a conqueror, be- 
lieved in his royalty. He knew that his royalty, which had begun with him 
alone, would, in the same way, end with him. He hoped nothing, either from 
the past, or the future ; he had been simply the king of the present. He felt 
himself abandoned by the kings, his brothers ; and by the people, his children ; 
the kings who were afraid of him, and the people who no longer feared him. 
He had, at this fatal moment of his power, the knowledge of a dying man (if 
it is true, that such have a clearer perception than others), and now, having 
reached his best hour, he understood perfectly, that since glorious royalty was 
proscribed, the end of all royalty, and the time for liberty, had come ; and that, 
if he, the emperor, had foi-merly been strong enough, to stop the progress of 
liberty, liberty was now too strong, not to carry away the emperor. Seeing this, 
he bent to the necessity he could not avoid, and resigned himself to it ; only he 
laughed with pity, to think of this mouldering royalty of the house of Bourbon, 
which was about to oppose the emperor, without suspecting that it was, in real- 
ity, opposing liberty. 

Once more, then, and for the last time, the emperor quitted the chateau of 
the Tuileries. What would he not then have given, never to have entered this 
fatal palace? The abyss of Waterloo was waiting for him, and he threw 
himself headlong into it, with his array, for which he had no longer any occa- 
sion, and which was no longer in need of him. There had been a truce in the 
wars of the world, a necessary truce ; for the world was weary, and could bear 
it no longer. War needs blood and gold, and in 1815, there was not in all Eu- 
rope, another drop of blood, or another ounce of gold, to be lavished in battle. 
We must therefore introduce here, a delightful blank page of ten years, during 
which France paid her debts, and healed her wounds. But ten years later, 
France, happy, repeopled, rich, and idle, suddenly discovered that she had been 
conquered at Waterloo, and that the emperor had just died at St. Helena. Then 
arose outcries, complaints, songs, regrets, reproaches, furious orations ; liberty 
carried them back to the emperor. 



32 MARIE LOUISE AND CHARLES X.^ — THE REVOLUTION OF JULY. 

Another melancholy thing was the departure of that Austrian lady who left 
the Tuileries ; driven out and compelled to fly, as Marie Antoinette, her cousin, 
had quitted it ; a condemned prisoner. The emperess Marie Louise — that wo- 
man, who, just the opposite of Marie Antoinette, was never on a level with her 
greatness, any more than she was with her misfortunes, fled from the throne, 
pursued by the very soldiers of her father. With her fled also, that child, half 
Bonaparte, who was born king of the French-Rome, and died an Austrian 
prince. This flight was melancholy and miserable. The princess was but lit- 
tle aff'ected, except about the treasure which the Austrian soldiers wished to take 
from her. This treasure was some money, which she had saved from ship- 
wreck, as if money were something royal. 

To compare one flight with another, I prefer that of the king, Charles X. 
This noble king, this benevolent, courageous, resigned, good man, this knight- 
king, was overthrown by a clap of thunder, which had been muttering over his 
head since 1820. Then, like a man always self-possessed, awoke with a start, 
Charles X. repeated his prayers, rose and said, as Louis XVI. had done, " Let 
us go !" and he set out, thus resigned. He felt sure that his household would 
follow him ; and without shedding a tear, without heaving a sigh, he gained the 
coast of Cherbourg, where the sea awaited him; that sea, crossed so many 
times, with such different retinues, and for such different reasons. He had so 
little money, that he, the king, had to borrow some of his majesty M. Odillon 
Barrot ; and really it was time, that M. Barrot opened the purse of the nation, 
for the Duke of Bordeaux had played so long, in the Garden des Tuileries, be- 
fore setting out, that he had no shoes to his feet. 

However, in 1 830, the people, who had not entered the Tuileries since 1792, 
were determined to have their revenge. They threw themselves, with all the 
weight of their anger and contempt, within these walls which they had so long 
respected. They broke everything they met with, in their passage ; they drank, 
to intoxication, of the wine in the cellar, they ate the royal sweetmeats, they 
threw themselves on the royal eiderdown, they took their seats upon the throne, 
they yelled out their songs, they did not even respect the dauphiness's room, 
that type of misfortune and Christian austerity. Then, when there was neither 
a bottle left to empty, nor a piece of furniture to break, nor a place to profane, 
some person, a man of sense — who are always to be met apropos, when revolu- 
tions are finished — a clever fellow, who wished to get rid of these upstart heroes 
of three days, came and told the people, that the soldiers of Charles X. were 
waiting for them, at Rambouillet. At this news the people took up their arms 
again, and ran to E-ambouillet, hoping to fight. There they found nothing but 
guns thrown on the ground, empty bottles, a devastated palace. " It was not 
worth while to make us leave our Tuileries," said the people, and immediately 
the carriages of the king, were prejiared, and they returned to Paris as quickly 
as horses could bring them — the horses of Charles X. 

But during this interval, some dexterous person, one of those men who guess 
beforehand, the monarchies which are about to rise, had already, on his own au- 
thority, closed the chateau of the Tuileries. Then the people, who were gayly 
returning to it, were told, that each must go back to his wife, and that the rev- 
olution of July would not answer, for the consequences of three nights passed 
away from home. So our conquerors threw down their arms, left their carriages, 
and set out in great haste for their dwellings, terribly afraid of being scolded by 
their wives, and called lazy-hones ! 

Immediately, an invisible hand possessed itself of the guns of the conquerors 
of July, never to return them. The horses were taken back to their stables, 
the carriages into the coach-house, and the Chateau des Tuileries was closed, 
as they say on the play-bills, on account of repairs, and in order that the new 
piece may he repeated. 

Thus, by degrees, this great shelter of so many scenes, and so many hastily- 
fomented revolutions, reassumed a royal appearance. After some little hesita- 
tion, and many pressing entreaties from M. Casimir Perier, his new majesty the 
king of the three days, consented to live in the Chateau des Tuileries. It is said, 



RECHID PACHA THE UNFINISHED PALACE. 33 

said, that he did not leave his palais royal, where he had remade his fortune, 
without many regrets, and long adieuji. Once in this dwelling of absolute 
power, Louis Philippe soon made of it, a liberal and hospitable house, betoken- 
ing its double source — its royal power and its popular origin. 

Again the Tuileries are restored. After having studied this history well, and 
after having just read it, in the remembrances of the revolution of July, judge 
of my astonishment, when I saw everything in its place, the soldier equipped, 
the trooper on horseback, the carrousel all under arms ; and, yet more, what is 
this long retinue of carriages which advance slowly ? It is the royal livery ; 
these are the coronation horses, when the present king was the Duke of Orleans; 
it is the master of the ceremonies who has been sent for, and now brings back 
the ambassador from the Sublime Porte, his excellency Rechid Pacha — E-echid, 
that Parisian of Constantinople, the graceful poet, whose soft elegies form the 
joy and the pride of the Bosphorus of Thrace, a statesmen of calm foresight 
and fearless wisdom, English in his character, French in his language, his ur- 
banity, and his politeness, and exceedingly popular in this France, where wit. 
grace, and poetry, are sure to give you the right of citizenship. The literary 
men and the artists know his name, the beauties salute him, when he makes his 
appearance, the king has made him a great officer of the Legion d'Honneur, 
and the people see him pass in his beautiful carriage, at which they look with 
an admiring and somewhat sorrowful air, because they remember, that for three 
days, they themselves rode in equally splendid equipages. 



CHAPTER X. 

THE LOUVRE. 



Let us leave the palace, and go into the garden of the Tuileries ; let us turn 
from business to pleasure — from troubles without end, to harmless joys — from 
the new royalty of France, to the royal infancy of France, which is blooming 
below, under those beautiful trees. The general prospect, from the chateau of 
the Tuileries is, if not important, at least magnificent. In order to have a good 
view of it, you must come through the Place St. Germain I'Auxerrois. After a 
sad salute to the old church of St. Germain I'Auxerrois — formerly the parish 
church of the kings, then laid waste and profaned, one day during the carnival,, 
by men dressed as clowns and harlequins, at last restored and saved for some 
time, if future revolutions permit — you see before you the colonnade of the 
Louvre, that chef d'oeuvre which would be reckoned in the list of wonders, if, 
in the nineteenth century, anything, or any person, could be considered a won- 
der. The front is so delicate, and yet at the same time so majestic ; it unites 
in so eminent a degree, the two greatest beauties of architecture — ^strength and 
grace — that one is never weary of admiring it. But here is a sample of French 
improvidence ! All this magnificence, in which breathes the great age, is, at 
this moment, and will be, for three centuries at least, surrounded by an inglo- 
rious wooden paling, fit for nothing better than to protect a bed of cabbages. 
The whole palace is thus enclosed. You would say that the pearl of Cleopatra 
was preserved in the dunghill of the stables. Far from having planted magnifi- 
cent trees round these superb walls, as their great architect Perrault intended, a 
thousand parasitical plants have been allowed insolently to grow in this splendid 
shade. Instead of the fine fresh turf, which would have formed such a delight- 
ful border to these carved stones, you have horrible thistles raising their mena- 
cing heads against this delicate chasiag. It is dreadful to see such wealth and 
such negligence united. The thistle, the appropriate plant for ruins, which, 

3 



34 THE HEROES OF JULY THE LOUVRE AND THE TUILERIES. 

from the depth of its nothingness, threatens this unfinished palace — these noble 
walls, which nothing shelters, which have not even the shelter of a lime-tree to 
refresh their heights, warmed by the sun, or a carpet of moss, on which to re- 
pose their weary feet ! Four or five generations of kings, or republics, or em- 
pires, or charters, have passed under these arches, without thinking of planting 
a tree, sowing a little turf, or removing these barriers of painted wood. The 
revolution of July, embarrassed with its three days' corpses, dared to dig an imT 
mense ditch at the foot of this colonnade of the Louvre. Into this ditch, were 
thrown several cart-loads of the dead. They were all promiscuously hurled 
into the same earth, and shared the same glory The cannon of the Place de 
Greve still thundered ; the tricoloi'ed flag had scarcely been set up, before this 
people, burnt by powder and sun, sought a priest at the church of St. Germain 
I'Auxerrois, to pray over this half-opened tomb. The priest arrived, dressed in 
in his sacerdotal robes, and blessed those, who had just died for expelling from 
his rightful throne, the King Charles X. and his family. The tomb was closed, 
amid tears and cries of joy — tears of grief, cries of victory. It was surrounded 
by black planks, on the top of which floated a tricolored flag. A stray dog, that 
happened to be there, was tied to this funeral column, which was guarded by a 
sentinel, and an illustrious poet composed a song upon the dog of the Louvre. 
Some days later, this tomb of the heroes of July, was enclosed within the wooden 
pahng which siirrounds the Louvre. The sentinel who guarded the tomb had 
been relieved, without being replaced ; the shaggy dog had been restored to lib- 
erty, and had gone to seek a new master : so that, of this ovation, at once he- 
roic, religious, and poetical, there remained absolutely nothing, not even the 
song of the poet. 

It must be owned, however, that the dead interred here, have only had to 
wait ten years for the great day of a tomb and a i-ecompense. A column has 
been raised to their memory, at the end of the boulevards, on the site of the 
Bastille. It is true that it bears no resemblance to the column in the Place 
Vendome, that triumphant bronze, animated from top to bottom, by the most 
skilful sculptors ; but at least it is better to be buried with honor in this place, 
than to be thrown into a corner of the Louvre, where you are scarcely remem- 
bered once a year. 

When you have thus glanced upon these sad remains of an unfinished palace, 
upon this unlucky paling of pitiful boards, which spoils the effect of the Louvre, 
and makes all who pass melancholy, you enter the court by a large gate, which 
seems made for giants ; and here, alas ! is more desolation. This court of the 
Louvre, if you consider only its details, is perhaps the richest and most beauti- 
ful thing which Paris contains. It is decorated, from top to bottom, by those 
fairy hands, which the Italian sixteenth century sent to France, as the choicest 
gift they comld make her. Jean Goujon shines and sparkles in every part of 
these noble walls. Caryatides, bas-reliefs, festoons, statues, colonnades ! you 
can scarcely believe your eyes. Fancy a whole poem spreading itself out be- 
fore you ; not one of those primitive poems, which are worth but little, except 
for a certain wild naivete, a genius without eloquence, passion without restraint, 
and enthusiasm without limit and Avithout discretion. We are speaking now, 
of one of those beautiful works, where art and taste meet and agree perfectly, 
where invention is controlled by order, and enthusiasm bows to reason. Rich 
and studied elegance ; such is the court of the Louvre. But, alas ! you must 
only glance at all these chefs d'oeuvre ; for if you approach nearer — what dis- 
order ! what destitution ! There is nothing before you but a ruin, and the most 
afflicting of all ruins, that of a monument which has never been finished ; the 
death of a palace, which has never lived ; noble stones, which men have not in- 
habited ; a great age, without remembrance ; an echo, which has nothing to 
repeat to you ; staircases, that no human foot has trod ; a desert, that has been 
built ; a silence, which had no beginning ; the frightful void, in which you seek 
motion, noise, fetes, glory, art, authority, misfortune, revolution, defeat — all that 
composes that nameless thing, which people call power ! 

Singular fancy of the French ! to undertake everything, and finish nothing ; 



PROPOSED nWION OF THE LOUVRE AND THE TUILERIES. 35 

all fire at first, all ice afterward. He who says to the French, The Louvre, says 
as much, nay more, than if he said to Mehemet Ah, The Pyramids! Well, in 
all this crowd of idlers or of busy-bodies who pass and repass, who go and come, 
incessantly, under the wickets of the Louvre, there is not a man who once 
thinks what a pity it is, how dishonorable it is to France, that the Louvre should 
thus be left unfinished; that if this wonder, so well commenced, were at last 
completed, Paris could justly boast of possessing the most magnificent monu- 
ment in the world. Fancy four palaces, one against another, a whole city 
thrown open, decorated and chiselled, and brilliant, every art, every chef d'ceuvre, 
everything of renown, all glory and all power assembled within these walls. 
The Louvre, if it were united to the Tuileries, would form, without contradic- 
tion, the rarest, the most astonishing, and the most magnificent collection of the 
greatest and most beautiful things in the world. What do I say — the Louvre 
united to the Tuileries ? That is not the point in question. It is only proposed 
to finish the court of the Louvre ; to clear it from the stones which obstruct it, 
to fill up the excavations which make of it, a puddle in winter and a gravel-pit 
in summer. Finish the Louvre! We only ask that its beautiful columns may 
be cleared from the plaster which covers them; we ask that panes of glass may 
be put into the windows of the palace ; for, if you can believe it, the casements 
of this noble unfinished house have no glass in them ; rain and wind enter, and 
whistle through this dwelling, as if it was an abandoned castle in the Alps. In 
the lowest windows of the Louvre, I observed that the large squares of glass 
had been replaced by four small ones, which cost less money — the economy of 
a grocer in his back shop ; and thus this beautiful palace is given up to cold, 
heat, wind, mud, and dust ; no one lives in it, no one repairs it ; no one takes 
any interest in preserving the falling ceilings, the precious woods which are de- 
caying, the rusty grates, and the slates which the wind carries away. The Re- 
publfc, which made little pretensions to Atticism, placed in the Louvre a few 
artists and poets, whose wives took care to SAveep down the cobwebs ; the Res- 
toration has turned out these poets and artists, and put no one in their place. 
At the present moment they talk of putting the royal library into the Louvre; 
this would be rather a noisy place for study ; but at last the Louvre would be in- 
habited; if not by princes — but where are the princes? — whom do you call 
princes now? — at least by the princes of thought, by the kings of speech, by 
the gods of poetry and history ; Homer, Virgil, Milton, Shakspere, Plato, 
Descartes, Demosthenes, Mirabeau, Clarendon, the only kings who have not 
been dethroned, the only gods whose altars have not been broken. 

From this first court of the Louvre, you pass into another large court, in a 
similar state of devastation. On the left you have the museum of France, a 
noble museum; but to see it properly, we need a brighter than a winter's sun. 
Formerly between the Louvre and the Tuileries there was a space crowded 
with houses, hotels, and streets; the emperor Napoleon, who had a mind 
capable of appreciating every kind of greatness, decided that while he reigned, 
the Tuileries and the Louvre should form but one palace, filled with the same 
imperial and royal grandeur. Consequently the emperor bought all the houses 
which stood in his way, but he had not time to have them pulled down ; glory 
and Waterloo prevented. The Restoration, which was afraid of all Napoleon's 
schemes, thought itself too happy to inhabit the Louvre, such as it was ; it 
quietly placed itself there, concealing itself as much as possible, lest revolutions 
should come and find it out ; it would have been terrified had any one proposed 
to it to finish the Louvre, and to join the Chateau des Tuileries to this sojourn 
of artists, by that route through which the people passed every day. Louis 
Philippe, who is above all these pitiful fears, would like nothing better than to 
undertake this illustrious task, provided he was worthily seconded ; and assured- 
ly the Louvre would be finished by this king, the protector of falling palaces, if 
only he had the old civil list of the Restoration at his service. 

however, the present king indemnified himself for this restraint, by having 
the space cleared in front of the Tuileries. He pulled down the worst houses, 
while waiting till he could bring the Louvre to them, as they say the sea is, some 



36 THE PARISIANS IRRITATED. 

day, to reach Paris. Every day the distance which the Louvre must pass, to shake 
hands with the Tuileries, lessens and becomes smoother. Come then with me 
among these ruins — ruins amusing enough to see. First we pass under a pretty 
little triumphal arch, badly placed at the gate of the Palais des Tuileries ; built 
according to the taste of the emperor Napoleon and M. Fontaine, his architect. 
They erected it for the purpose of placing on it, the horses taken from Venice, 
noble steeds, which Venice herself had stolen from Constantinople. After the 
invasion, Venice retook them, and, instead of the horses of the emperor Con- 
stantine, Louis XVIII. had four racehorses put there, which are out of breath, 
pursuing I know not what phantom of glory and liberty. We are now in the 
court. The old palace looks at us through all its windows, or rather, all its 
windows are open, and we can see what passes within. Indeed you would say 
that the king of the French lived in a palace of glass. You pass on under the 
vestibule. In the place of that narrow mean staircase which leads to the guard- 
room, there was formerly a truly royal staircase, which served admirably for all 
the pomp and etiquette of former times. Louis Philippe has banished the stair- 
case, which he did not need, that he might build in its place an entrance room, 
which was much wanted. This king is a man who prefers the ease of himself, 
and his family to everything else. In his opinion the accommodation of the 
citizen comes first, and royal exhibitions aftei-ward. He is not displeased at 
being surrounded by a little etiquette, provided this etiquette does not interfere 
with the liberty of his movements. I do not know — or rather I do know well — 
how he would reply, if his architect came and said to him, " Sire, you must 
give up a throne-room or a dining-room.'' So much the worse for the throne- 
room ; but, nevertheless, there is no citizen who loves comfort who would not 
be frightened to think of all the money that Louis Philippe has spent in build- 
ing dining-rooms, kitchens, and passages. Fifteen hundred thousand francs for 
the kitchens of the Chateau de Fontainebleau, where he gives dinners twice a 
year ; q million for the kitchens of the Chateau d'Eu, where he hardly dines 
once in two years. 

Thus when compelled by Casimir Perier, who, in regard to kings, was said to 
recognise only the king living at the Tuileries, Louis Philippe established him- 
self there, his first care was to have this royal dwelling, which in many parts 
was exceedingly dirty, thoroughly cleaned. They repaired the planks which 
had split open, changed the carpets which had not been beaten for fifteen years, 
threw on a level rooms which had been connected by wooden staircases, and ad- 
mitted light and air into those corridors which had neither. One room was yet 
wanted, facing the garden; Louis Philippe boldly ordered a large one to be 
built upon the very facade, so that the old front was destroyed by it; but this 
front was the masterpiece of Philibert Delorme. Imagine the outcry of the Pa- 
risian ! To touch his Chateau des Tuileries ! To spoil at pleasure the facade 
of his Philibert Delorme ! To replace these two delightful balconies with heavy 
masonry! There was such an uproar throughout Paris you could scarcely 
hear your own voice. Louis Philippe replied to all these clamors, by making 
for his own special use, a little garden surrounded by a deep ditch with a grassy 
einbankment. He maintained that it was not right that he, the monarch, living 
in the Tuileries, should be the only person who could not walk in his garden, 
and that he ought at least to have his share of it. Then the outcries recom- 
menced! The Parisian was furious! Not only to take away his palace, but 
still more /ms garden. And not contented with taking his garden, they must dig 
a ditch round it. The king was planting trees for himself only ! flowers for 
himself only ! erecting statues for himself only ! They could no longer go 
close under the windows to see the court pass on its way to mass ! And then 
the greatest crime of all, was, that they must go six steps further to reach the 
Pont Royal ! The complaints were loud and fierce. Paris was on the point of 
a revolution. 

The king replied to the complaints of Paris, by refusing admission into the 
garden of the Tuileries, to every man in a waistcoat or a helmet, and to every 
woman whose head was uncovered, or who wore only a cap. Thujs was re- 
established the watchword of the ex-king Charles X. 



TliE PARISIANS APPEASED — THE GARDEN OF THE TUILERIES. 37 

The people lost, that day, the last of the rights which they had obtained 
from the monarchy, in the three days of the revolution of July — their right 
to enter the garden of the Tuileries, in a waistcoat, and without a bonnet !* 

When once the king had proved that he was determined to make use of the 
Tuileries as he pleased, the complaints ceased. The Parisian who was so tena- 
cious of his garden, gave up the point, lest the king should insist upon having a 
largpr share. When the winter came, Louis Philippe gave balls to all Paris, in 
the room which he had built upon the facade of the Tuileries, and Paris then 
discovered that he had been quite right in usurping this magnificent ball-room. 
Spring appeared, the trees blossomed, the flowers in the king's private garden 
burst forth, the formidable ditches were clothed with new verdure, and Paris 
found out that the king was quite right in having this pretty little garden, 
which everybody could see, and which its proprietor never entered. The fash- 
ionable ladies and gentlemen were very well pleased that they should not now 
mingle in the same walks with Abigails and workmen ; people no longer talked 
of Vandalism, or rebelled against M. Fontaine in favor of Philibert Delorrae, 
but every one was satisfied. 

How many Parisian tumults the king, single-handed and without striking a 
blow, might have brought to a favorable conclusion, if the police had only al- 
lowed him to act ! 



CHAPTER XI. I 

THE GARDEN OF THE TUILERIES. 

The garden of the Tuileries is the most delightful place in the world. 
How often I have said to myself, as I walked there, that never, in all my travels, 
had I witnessed a more beautiful assemblage, under finer trees, sun'ounded by 
richer edifices, or in a more superb city. Whoever you are, stranger, who have 
just arrived in Paris — without waiting to take your letters of introduction from 
your portfolio — go into the garden of the Tuileries, and you will immediately 
find yourself in the centre of the largest and richest saloon in the world. A 
gravel, brilliant as gold, carpets these long alleys, which form a promenade 
throughout the year, for the most beautiful women in the city ; in the summer, 
because the garden abounds with shade and flowers ; in the winter, because it is 
one of the places where the sun shows itself — pale and watery, it is true, but 
still it is the sun. In this sweet spot, at each season of the year, all ages of life 
have their favorite walks, where you are sure to meet them every day, at the 
same hour. A long terrace, bordered with young trees, runs parallel with the 
Rue de Rivoli. This terrace is the daily resort of the sun and the old men. 
The sun, banished from the garden by the large trees, or by the winter, takes 
possession of this terrace, which is still left to him: the old men, banished far 
from the large trees, by the cold, come to this terrace, to enjoy the sun and the 
noisy street At two o'clock, the street is a gay and animated scene. All the 
rich carriages of Paris stop and put down — not their masters, they are still at 
business — •but their elegant mistresses, in that careless half-dress, for which the 
Parisian lady is so celebrated. On this terrace, the old man walks slowly with 
his friend the sun ; amusing himself, at the same time, by looking at these young 
women, who glide before him, without deigning to bestow a glance upon him. 
A young girl dreads equally the sun and old age ; the stm, because of the blem- 
ishes he produces — the old man, because of his smile ; she therefore flies, not 

* This prohibition is not now enforced, but no person carrying a parcel is allowed to enter the 
garden of the Tuileries. — S. T. 



38 THE PARISIAN LADIES THE TOUNG MEN. 

under the shade of the Hmes, for Galathea chooses to be seen, but to the long 
alley where all the young men pass and repass ; this is called the great walk ; it 
is the only part of this large and magnificent garden which the young men and 
women will consent to visit. The ladies, carelessly seated upon straw chairs, 
talk about fashions and plays ; they tell each other what is the newest matei ial — 
what novel has made them weep — what play at the Gymnase they must witness 
this evening. The Parisian lady has at least two kinds of conversation — gossip- 
ing in the open air, and the rambling, sarcastic eloquence of the saloon. In the 
garden of the Tuileries, for instance, or at the theatre, they say nothing but what 
all the world may hear. No slanders, no jokes, nothing bitter ; it is a harmless 
discourse, in which no one is concerned, and in which all may join. This is the 
effect of a tact wholly Parisian. But the most beautiful women in Paris repair 
daily to this great walk in the Tuileries. They are constantly met and saluted, 
en passant, by some gentleman of their acquaintance, but only for an instant, and 
this salutation is considered a visit. You would find it difficult to recognise 
these ladies — so simple, artless, and gracious are they in the Tuileries. At 
home, the Parisian is full of grace, but withal rather serious ; when visiting at 
the house of a friend, she is cautious and demure ; it is only in the great walk 
of the Tuileries that she is unreserved and artless. For this she retains her 
most simple attire ; her object in going there is not only to be seen, but also to 
see ; not to be admired, but to please ; it is her hour of freedom and repose, 
when her husband is absent. Here the Parisian has no rivals, she has only 
friends ; she exhibits no luxury, but much taste. What a charming creature is 
the Parisian lady in the great walk of the Tuileries ! 

All, even the young men, appear to feel something of the happy influence of 
this dehghtful shade. I am no great admirer of the young men in Paris ; I find 
them idle, self-conceited, full of vanity, and poor ; they have too little time and 
too little money to bestow upon elegance and pleasure, to be either graceful or 
passionate in their excesses : besides this, they are brought up with very little 
care, and are perfectly undecided between good and evil, justice and injustice, 
passing easily from one extreme to the other ; to-day prodigals, to-morrow mi- 
sers ; to-day republicans, to-morrow royalists. At the present time, the Parisian 
youth, usually so courteous to ladies, cares for nothing but horses and smoking. 
It is the height of French fashion not to speak to women, not to bow to them, 
and scarcely to make way for them when they pass. I except, however, from 
this censure, the young Parisians who resort to the great walk of the Tuileries : 
these still esteem women ; that is, they still love them. They come here to see, 
in their careless morning-dresses, the young ladies with whom they danced at 
the ball, in all the ornaments of beauty. They pass respectfully before them, 
for it is only here that the ladies have presei-ved their dominion ; anywhere 
else, you may consider them nothing, you may forget to bow to them, or 
to admire them ; but you are compelled to admire them, to salute them, 
and to respect them, in the great walk of the Tuileries. This walk is in- 
accessible to the Lovelace of the Boulevard de Gand, the dandy of the Bois de 
Boulogne, and the frequenter of the gallery at the Opera : it is as positively 
closed against them as against the waistcoats and helmets. Here the women 
protect and sustain each other ; they only look complacently upon those who 
deserve it, by the respect which they pay to them. Here match-making mothers 
bring their daughters, and the young men come to see these very daughters. 
The wife is accompanied by her husband, but the gentlemen make their appear- 
ance even while he is with her ; in a word, what little there is left of chivalry 
and courteousness, of respect among men, and reserve among women, of inno- 
cence and youth, of simplicity and conjugal love, in the Parisian world, has 
taken refuge here. Every year the Academic Francaise has to decree a prize 
to virtue, in compliance with Montyon's will, and every year they are perplexed 
to know who is entitled to it. Let them give it to the great walk of the Tuile- 
ries ! 

Beyond this oasis of decorum and good taste, quite at the end of the garden, 
is a wood of large trees, melancholy in winter, and dark in summer. This dis- 



THE DESERT RETREAT OF THE PHILOSOPHERS PARISIAN CHILDREN. 39 

tant forest forms, so to speak, the desert of tlie garden. Many diligent walkers 
do not even know that there exists such a cluster of austere and silent trees. 
You can hardly believe yourself in the centre of one of the most populous, and, 
above all, one of the noisiest cities in Europe, when you happen to find your- 
self concealed beneath the shade of this almost druidical forest. No one visits 
it, for the simple reason that there is no one to be seen. Occasionally you may 
meet a i'ew solitary walkers, who bring with them their ennui, which is almost 
always caused by love. More than one statue of white marble rises among these 
plane-trees. 

The garden is full of statues. Ancient and modern times, Greece, Rome, 
Paris, marble, stone, bronze, copies, and original statues, are all scattered here in 
profusion. Continue your course. Leave on one side the large basin, in which 
red-fish are playing, and after ascending a flight of steps, you will find yourself on 
the terrace which runs by the side of the water, parallel with that of the Rue de 
Rivoli. This terrace is also appropriated ; it is the promenade of the philoso- 
phers, the resort of the thoughtful, in the happy moments when their thoughts 
are concentrated : here the poet dreams of his verses, or prepares his drama; 
how many poisons are distilled, how many harmless stabs have been given, upon 
these banks ! More than once this walk has been paced by the statesman, while 
anticipating his attack and his consequent reply. This promenade is cheerless 
and solitary : the Seine flows gently beneath it, while the noisy Rue de Rivoli 
forms a striking contrast, by the side of the opposite terrace. Such is the diversi- 
ty of this delightful garden ; there noise, here silence ; there action, here thought ; 
and between this noise and silence, between this action and repose, between the 
Rue de Rivoli and the Seine, between the Arc de Triomphe de I'Etoile and the 
Chateau des Tuileries, you will find a melancholy, happy lover, v/ho dreams and 
hopes. And what signifies to him power and obscurity, glory and noise, the Arc 
de Triomphe, and the palace ? He is the happiest and the wisest man in the 
world, or rather, he is the only happy one. He alone is wise, powerful, glorious, 
— he loves ! 

But come to the end of the terrace by the water — listen ! Do you hear the 
joyous cries rising in the air ? Long may the happiness they betoken continue ! 
Here you behold the most beautiful children in Paris, enjoying their sports. 
Come on, come on ; leave behind you your philosophical meditations, your ora- 
torical reveries, your profound thoughts ; let the young lover even forget his 
attachment ; come and see these pretty children dancing, the spring of the year 
in blossom. We are in La Petite Provence, on the borders of the lake, where 
the white swan spreads his snowy wings to the wind, not far from the little garden 
designed by the Emperor Napoleon for the king of Rome, a diminutive kingdom 
of some square feet, which the imperial child lost the same day that he lost Paris 
and Rome, France, Italy, and the world. 

There is nothing so delightful to see or hear as these little Parisian children. 
They come to the Tuileries, accompanied by their mothers, and immediately 
take their joyous flight to the daily rendezvous. You would see at once that 
they were of high parentage, so plainly visible is their noble blood in the daunt- 
less looks, the rosy cheeks, and the skin radiant with health. The mothers of 
these happy children have exhausted all their ingenious maternal coquetry in 
adorning them : they lavish upon their persons lace, embroidery, or velvet ; while 
the children themselves, careless, as is natural at their age, thinking only of 
pleasure, engage in a thousand games of skill, and a thousand trials of strength, 
in which they already show their dexterity and their courage. The boys chal- 
lenge each other to ran races, play tennis, or to wrestle ; they clasp each other in 
their arms, they roll upon the gravel, like beautiful serpents interlaced ; their 
arms, their legs, even their hair, can scarcely be distinguished ; it is a delightful 
confusion. And in these honorable wrestlings there are no cries, no tears, no 
alarm ; he who is beaten, rises and recommences the fight. Others, less petu- 
lant, dispute already, in imitation of the philosophers in the gardens of Acade- 
mus. All the instincts of these children are revealed at this time, and you do 
not need much observation to see that already they are noble and honorable. 



40 MATERNAL PRIDE A REVIEW AT THE CARROUSEL. 

Among the girls, you will, in the same way, find all the preferences of the wo- 
man. This one, young as she is, is nevertheless a coquette, and dehghts in her 
little white frock waving over two small feet that can hardly be seen ; that one, 
pensive and solitary, dreams of heaven, as she repeats, in a low voice, the beauti- 
ful verses of Lamartine ; others, spirited and bold as the boys, mingle heedlessly 
in their games, and — tyrants at nine years old ! — bend them to all their childish 
caprices. How many have I seen, who in ten years will be exquisitely beautiful, 
with their graceful figiires, their luxuriant hair, and their small hands ! The 
mothers watch them, with tears in the eyes, and joy in the heart. The Parisian 
mother is proud of her son ; she is happy in her daughter. A young mother, 
who holds by the hand her boy of six years old, walks along as proud and as sat- 
isfied as if she had the arm of a marshal of France. A young mother who sees 
her daughter of six years old seated at her side, is as uneasy as if that daughter 
was twenty. There is no city in the world where children are treated more like 
rational beings than in Paris. They themselves imderstand wonderfully all the 
dignity, I had almost said all tlie majesty, of childhood. Their servants speak to 
them respectfully, their parents tenderly ; the boys are saluted just in the same 
way as if they were men. As many obsequious flatteries are lavished on little 
girls as on young women. The Parisian child dines with his father and mother, 
he passes the day in his mother's room by her side, he walks with her, he sees 
her tears and her smiles ; he is proud of his father's success ; while yet young, 
he knows the history of his family, his fortune, his hopes, his reverses ; he is 
grave, and yet what distinguishes him above all other children is, that while in 
his very infancy a man, he remains for a long time completely a child. 

But vrhat has so suddenly reversed the scene ? The garden is deserted and 
silent ; even the most quiet pedestrians are leaving in haste. Hark ! the sound 
of clarion and drums bursts upon the ear ! military music is heard ! summon- 
ing every regiment to arms. There is a fete at the Carrousel. The king is 
just about to hold a review. A review at the Carrousel ! This was the custom 
of the Emperor Napoleon, before undertaking any new expedition, or framing 
any new law ; he descended into the court of his palace, to receive the honor 
and respect of the old soldiers, who had just come from battle, or of the young 
recruits who were setting out for war. It was his. delight to see them pass in 
their military accoutrements, to salute the standard pierced with bullets, to rec- 
ognise the soldiers by a smile, the officers by a look ; to say to himself, " It is I 
who am reigning here, between the royal chateau which is mine, the museum 
which I have conquered, the Arc de Triomphe raised to my glory, the marble 
horses taken by me at Venice ; it is I, who am seated upon this dazzling throne, 
these soldiers whom I have formed, belong to me — I am their emperor, and if I 
please, I will hurl them against the world, and they will bring me back capitals' 
and kingdoms, and will think themselves rewarded, far beyond their merit, when 
I have said to them. Many thanks, brave friends .'" 

Though less a warrior, the satisfaction of the present king of the Tuileries is 
quite as great, when he sees himself surrounded, saluted, and recognised, by the 
soldiers and the standard of France. Although a peaceful king, Louis Phihppe 
has been a soldier, and remembers it too, perfectly well. From the way in 
which he watches the martial movements, you can see that he loves them, and 
remembers them with pride. If he is not embroiled with all Europe, the King 
of the French has at least within his reach, an active, impassioned, constantly- 
renewed war — that with Africa. In that, he has enclosed the martial ardor of 
France, and keeps it on the alert ; there he sends each year, battalions of the 
elite, to learn the dangers, fatigues, battles, treasons, and assaults, of that great 
game called war. Round the king, on review days, when not absent on service, 
press the young lieutenants-general, whom the army recognises with pride, as 
brave skilful officers, worthy of commanding. First comes the Duke de Ne- 
mours, well versed in all military sciences; he is never at his ease, except in the 
camp or in battle : look at him — he is fair, very reserved, he must be saluted 
first, before he will salute any one ; he looks just like some fine captain of the 
French guards, at the battle of Fontenoy ; but at the first sound of the drum, 



THE DUKE DE NEMOURS AND THE DUKE d'AUMALE. 41 

his countenance is animated, his head is raised, his step becomes firm. The 
soldier, who understands men, would laugh at you, if you were to say, as the 
women and the deputies do, that the Duke de Nemours is proud. As for that 
beautiful rosy youth, whose mustaches are yet so fair and so thin, do not de- 
ceive yourself, he is a brilliant colonel, who has smelt gunpowder more than 
once, and has already proved his bravery — it is the Duke d'Aumale, a fine young 
man, so gay, so happy to live in the world, and to wear a sword and epaulets ! 
He was brought up a scholar, and taught with much care and success, ancient 
languages, history, all the fine arts ; but no sooner had he escaped from his tu- 
tor's hands, than he gave himself up to dreams of wars and battles. "Forward, 
march," is the motto of this noble young man. If the soldier has no better of- 
ficer than the Duke de Nemours, he has no better companion than the Duke 
d'Aumale. Thus the review passes, as reviews always do in France. To see 
marching before you, a crowd of soldiers, well clothed, well armed, very numer- 
ous, dressed with all their military accoutrements, cannon rolling over a pave- 
ment which trembles beneath them, proud standards unfurled by the wind, 
waving in the air — to see the horses wheeling about, and to hear them neighing 
— to look at the cuirases shining in the sun — what a fete ! what enjoyment ! 
The Parisian, in this solemn contemplation, forgets even his wife, who calls him, 
and his dinner that waits for him. 



CHAPTER Xn. 

BUSINESS AND POLITICS. 



Nothing would please me better, than to walk still in these delightful gravelled 
alleys, in the midst of the elegant crowd, or to keep step with this military music, 
followed by the battalions which pass, presenting arms, into the Cari'ousel; if 
it was necessary, I would even consent, again to walk round the Chateau des 
Tuileries, or to count the muddy precipices in the court of the Louvre, without 
thinking it very fatiguing, or very painful ; to see and obsei-ve, and then simply 
to tell you what I have seen and heard, — this is the pleasure of travelling ; but, 
alas ! this is not all the duty, which 1 have imposed upon myself. After pleasure 
comes business. If modern society presents sometimes a frivolous appearance, 
it has also its serious, and occasionally its cruelly serious aspect. If Paris is 
the city of the fine arts, it is also the city of politics. There are in Paris at 
least as many statesmen, as painters and sculptors ; the French rostrum is not 
less worthy of attention and interest, than the French opera. By the side of the 
Garden des Tuileries, where the fashionables are walking, there is the Chateau 
des Tuileries, where the king works, night and day. Let us quit, then, the 
peaceful garden, the delightful shade, the joyous cries of these pretty children, 
wafted to us by the air, mingled with the perfume of the orange-trees, and cross, 
if it please you, the Place Louis XV., which saw Louis XYI. perish on the 
scaffold. At the corner of this place, you will find a bridge, ornamented by 
handsome chandeliers. This bridge connects the two rich quarters of the city, 
the Faubourg St. Germain and the Faubourg St. Honore, the Madeleine and 
the Chamber of Deputies ; — you have now the Chamber of Deputies before you, 
on the ground and close by the side of, the ancient palace of the dukes of Bour- 
bon. Pause an instant, before this monument, raised on a vast colonnade, itself 
placed at the summit of a noble flight of stone steps. Contemplate this building 
with respect. It is founded on the constitutional charter of the French. Within 
these walls, the glorious echo of which, has repeated so many brilhant and 
eloquent speeches, have been proposed, debated, and digested all the laws of the 



42 THE CHAMBER OF DEPUTIES. MIRABEAU. 

vast, intelligent, and powerful country of France. Within these walls, all the 
brightest geniuses of the country, have taken their places ; on the noble seats 
of this noble house, every passion, good and bad, has been excited. What cruel, 
and what honorable wrestlings! what violent attacks! what angry defences! 
All the principles which divide the world, have reigned there, supreme, each in 
its turn. Every generous ambition has been revealed, within this enclosure. 
Every great power has left it a conqueror, and has returned to it defeated ; the 
royalty of Charles X. rested upon this immoveable basis of the constitution. 
Imprudent men! they wished to touch these sacred foundations ; — suddenly one 
stone is detached from the edifice, and it has crushed with a single blow a mon- 
archy of fourteen centuries. " Et nunc reges intelligite ; erudimini quijudicatis 
terram,'''' as Bossuet reiterates. 

I went often to the Chamber of Deputies, — that noble counterpoise to the 
chateau of the Tuileries, — and I never returned from it, without having my 
admiration and respect excited, for so many eloquent speakers, the honor of this 
rostrum, which occupies so prominent a position before the world.* Parliament- 
ary eloquence is one of the invaluable conquests of 1789. She is the daughter, 
the companion, the protector, the advanced guard, of pohtical liberty. Mirabeau, 
that fiery tribune, sprung from the nobility, that orator inspired at once by past 
malice and present anger, that man who, with a word, a look, a gesture, over- 
turned the throne supposed to be the most firmly established in Europe, — Mira- 
beau was the first to teach future orators, how to ascend the rostrum, how to 
remain there, seated or standing, and how to speak from this height, to the world 
which listened in silence. It was an entire change in human speech, a revolution 
complete, active, incredible, skilful, unforeseen, as revolutions usually are. 
Strange event ! The France of the sixteenth century, which had listened to such 
eager disputants for and against Luther; — the France of the seventeenth century, 
which had, for so long a time, marched to catholic conquest, under the eloquent 
banner of Bossuet ; — the France of the eighteenth century, which had listened, 
openmouthed to Jean Jacques Rousseau, Diderot, Montesquieu, those great 
orators ; — all these generations ; — blended and confounded in the same study of 
classic antiquity, who had sounded in their most profound depths, the learned 
address, the well-turned, harmonious, and all-powerful periods of Demosthenes, 
of Cicero, of St. Jean Chrysostome, who had, from the very cradle, translated 
the histories of Titus Livy and of Tacitus ; strewn with those oratorical master- 
pieces, which have raised ancient history to the dignity of eloquence, — had yet 
failed to understand, that eloquence could be anything but a brilliant flash of 
wit, and thought, at the bar, or in the Christian pulpit. Eloquence, with the 
French, before Mirabeau's time, was merely a brief, a sermon, or, at most, an 
oration at the French academy, in honor of Lafontaine or Duguay-Trouin. 
Mirabeau appeared, and introduced into France, an -eloquence unknown to the 
ancients. He showed, by his example, that every man, who comes into the 
world, with a passion and a belief in his heart, is born an orator. He laid aside 
Cicero, Demosthenes, Titus Livy, Tacitus, Chrysostome, Bossuet, Jean Jacques 
Rousseau — all models. He taught that art was not necessary to speak on business ; 
that rhetoric was an idle and ridiculous resource, as applied to the government 
of a great people; that words spoken, ought not to resemble words written, and 
that the former, lively, passionate, bold, unbroken, partake but little, of the per- 
iphrasis, circumlocution, and regular order of the latter. Mirabeau also taught 
future orators, never to draw back before anger, never to sacrifice thought to 
metaphor, fact to periphrasis, strength to grace, or passion to art. He thus 
raised the French tribune, higher than even the Christian pulpit had been raised, 
by the eminent orators, who were the honor of the language ; after which the 
great Mirabeau, having reached the extent of his abilities, fell under the edifice 
which he had built. 

Mirabeau dead, the new art which he had inculcated, and demonstrated,. in so 
powerful a manner, was rapidly developed. Everything served, at the same 
time, to fertilize this noble seed of parliamentary eloquence ; the triumph of 
some, the defence of others, the death of all. All the orators, young and old. 



NAPOLEON AN ENEMY TO ELOQUENCE — SITTINGS OF THE CHAMBER. 43 

guilty or innocent, Camille Desmoulins, Saint Just, the two Robespierres, Dan- 
ton, Collot-d'Herbois, Fabre d'Eglantine, all the Girondins, died satisfied ; they 
left behind them an eloquent word, an echoing voice, a bloody arrow thrown 
from the height of the scaffold. There were even women who attained easily 
to eloquence, so great an influence has fear over the human faculties. Thus 
eloquence overflowed in France, like one of those new torrents, which the la- 
borer, accidentally, causes to gush forth, by a blow of his spade — water at first 
fertilizing, but which soon becomes an inundation. Bonaparte arrested this in- 
undation, as he did so many others. He made the five hundred orators, who 
were troublesome to him, even by their silence, jump through the window. At 
the orders of the emperor every independent voice became silent ; eloquence 
was stopped, as well as thought. They dared no longer do anything but sing 
the Te Deum, oratory gave way to dithyrambus, prose to verse : prose belongs 
to serious business, verse is the idleness of flatterers, who have nothing to say. 
People of spirit, who, under the empire, might have been orators or political 
writers, became soldiers, in order to have a good reason for neither speaking nor 
writing; everything gave way, in republican France, to the passive obedience of 
the soldier to his chief. What the man of spirit would not have granted, to the 
head of the nation, without blushing at his own weakness, the soldier would wil- 
lingly yield to his captain. This accounts for the fact, that there were so many 
good soldiers, and so few passable writers, under the empire. It was because, 
as long as Napoleon lived, such a captain contented himself with going to war, 
who was born and made his appearance in the world, solely to be a great orator, 
or a great writer. Thus Napoleon had misappropriated all the noble instincts, 
and had forced all the splendid intellects, to the profit of his own power and su- 
preme will. The proof of this, is, that — Napoleon fallen — French eloquence, 
that forgotten power, suddenly made its way, through so many ravages. More 
than one eloquent voice made itself heard, from the wrecks of armies, which 
foreign cannon had overwhelmed in the dust. The charter of Louis XVIII. 
restored to France, political liberty, and with it, eloquence. The first orator 
who presented himself, in this noble arena, was a soldier, a companion, a friend 
of the emperor ! It was General Foy, he whom France has deplored, as she 
never deplores her kings, and whose wife and children she has pensioned. 

However, thanks to me, you are now in the diplomatic tribune. Here you 
can see the whole Chamber of Deputies, a large circle, over which presides M. 
Sauzet. It is not yet one o'clock. The deputies arrive slowly, one after the 
other. Since the revolution of July, they are not obliged to wear the uniform, and 
you see before you, only honest citizens, for the most part, very carelessly dress- 
ed : as time advances, the seats are filled ; the first-comers walked slowly, but 
now those who enter, run. What is to happen, and what is to be said ? It is 
very difficult, even for those best acquainted with the subject, to foresee ; it 
must depend much upon the caprice, the talent, the skill of the orators. Sit- 
tings, which promised to be very stormy, have, more than once, terniinated with- 
out striking a blow. Others at first unimportant, have become so embroiled, be- 
tween the most eager and the most eloquent, that the chamber did not know to 
which to listen. Combats in speech are true combats, subject to the same 
chances, the same accidents, the same unforeseen reverses, the same unexpected 
victories, as real battles. It is a blank page on which no one knows what he 
shall write ; it is a drama in which each is ignorant, of the part he is about to 
play. What constitutes the principal interest in the sittings of the Chamber 
of Deputies, is, that all which you hear there, is really and truly unpremedita- 
ted. Occasionally, however, they allow orators to deliver a speech committed to 
memory the day before ; the chamber then gains in good language, what it 
loses in sudden thought. But this permission is rarely given ; he who speaks, 
must speak extempore, and must take up the point in question when he rises. 
Everything is clear, settled, precise, even in the incoherencies of this chamber. 
The stratagems of the profession are so well known, as to be instantly discover- 
ed, and, as quickly, the speaker is called to order. In this way, they gain much 
more time than they lose. Besides this, they usually speak, here, without em- 



44 FRENCH ORATORS MM. THEIRS AND GUIZOT. 

phasis, but not without elegance — without research, and without preparation, 
but not without a strong wish to convince, and to succeed. It is at once a con- 
versation and a discourse ; a conversation in its clearness, and precision, a dis- 
course, in the arrangement of the words, aud the extreme gracefulness of the 
delivery. One of the great characteristics of French wit is ridicule ; an ap- 
propriate joke may ruin a man. Now at the Chamber of Deputies, ridicule is 
always ready to seize on its victim ; irony incessantly watches for the slightest 
gesture, the least word, always ready to fasten on any absurdity : this strongly 
excites the eloquence of the rostrum. The speaker knows very well, that he 
can extricate himself from a blunder, but provincial French, a doubtful con- 
nexion, will never be forgiven him. What sad instances there are, of popular- 
ity lost, by a word mis-spoken, in the rostrum ! How many good men covered 
with indelible ridicule, for an expression, which they have innocently transplant- 
ed from their own province to the chamber ! One says nonante-cinq ; he is hiss- 
ed throughout Europe. Another is pointed at for having said, important, when 
he ought to have said, illustrious. One minister was ruined by calling the cen- 
sorship, a law of justice and of love. In France, it is wit which makes the ora- 
tor ; in Rome, it was courage. " Pectus est quod disertos facit,''' as Cicero says. 
But silence ! each is in his place. The president of the chamber arrives, 
preceded by his ushers, with the noise of the drum, and the portez armes of the 
soldiers and the national guards, the ministers are in their seats, all conversation 
is stopped, the bell rings, the sitting is opened, the oratorical battle has com- 
menced. But what does it signify to you, who have only come here from curi- 
osity, and wish rather to see than to hear : your first astonishment over, you will 
endeavor to find among the crowd, some of those well-known names, which form 
in themselves a whole creed, names overlooked in peace, but grown great in war, 
and which have so much influence over the destinies of men. Whom will you 
seek ? The first, I am sure, will be M. Thiers, and M. Guizot, heads of two 
parties, men eminent in this country, to whom nothing is wanting necessary for 
success, neither words, nor style, nor history, nor plebeian origin, nor suspicion, 
nor belief, nor public hatred or sympathy. Both of them, after having followed 
with unwearied steps — M. Guizot the monarchy of Charles X. — M. Thiers the 
France of 1789, now meet in the same victory. They are the two children of 
their works, they are two new-comers, as M. de Talleyrand said, two glorious 
and powerful new-comers. Friends to-day, enemies to-morrow, France follows 
and abandons them by turns, Europe attends and listens to them, always. The 
future belongs to them, but under different titles. M. Guizot is the director of 
peace, he commands the tempest, he calms Europe with a look, he has already 
pronounced twice, not, without being obeyed, the political quos ego ; M. Thiers 
is the man for riots, times of insurrection, menacing wars — you will see him gal- 
loping on horseback iipon the balance of Europe, in the midst of every kind of 
destruction, heaped up by his caprice and his genius. M. Guizot has a stern, 
calm will ; M. Thiers, a young and fiery inspiration. The one with a sure step 
advances to his point, which is the voluntary obedience of the people ; the other 
pursues his object, by fits and starts, it is the obedience of kings to their minis- 
ters ; the former does not hate a king who reigns and governs, the latter wishes 
to govern alone. Take from these two men, royalty, which forms their coun- 
terpoise and their security, make them strong and powerful, not by words and 
conviction, but by power and the sword, and you will have something, as much 
resembling the struggle between Sylla and Caius Marius, as the Chamber of 
Deputies resembles the Capitol. 



THE CHAMBER OF DEPUTIES — A ROTALIST. 45 

CHAPTER XIII. 

THE CHAMBER OF DEPUTIES. 

The sight of all these men, the representatives of such a country as France, 
assembled under the same roof, causes feelings which it is impossible to de- 
scribe ; what passions, what wants, what prejudices, what fortunes, what mise- 
ries, they represent ! As a stranger, I knew but little of the Chamber of Depu- 
ties ; it then presented to me only a confused and noisy scene ; nevertheless, 
such as it was, its appearance was imposing ; above all is this the case, now that 
distance and the contemplation of other interests give it all the importance of a 
luminous back-ground. I therefore shall not bring this outline before you, 
chapter by chapter, although it would be a very curious one, but, as far as I 
can, man by man ; in order that you may have — not a portrait, but — a faithful 
sketch, of all these parliamentary heads, among which are some capable of lead- 
ing the world. 

Look, for instance, at that man with the quick, dauntless glance, the capa- 
cious, bold forehead, the animated and loyal gestures ; he stands almost alone in 
the chamber, but is the object of general attention. Admire the beauty of this 
head so easily carried, although so full of facts and ideas, of courage and gen- 
erosity ; it belongs to, perhaps, the greatest orator of modern times — the con- 
quered, but not the discouraged, Cicero of legitimate royalty — it is M. Berryer. 
He is a model of fidelity and courage : he was born a royalist, he remains one in 
spite of the revolution, he will die in his belief. Obstinate, if you will, but ob- 
stinate from conviction, his perseverance is the more to be admired, from the fact 
of his being a royalist from instinct and duty, and not from necessity and origin. 
M. Berryer sprang from the people, he was born at a time of revolution, he was 
brought up at the bar, in the midst of those eloquent plebeians, who will ac- 
knowledge no superiority among men, except that of the toga and square cap. 
While a child, Berryer discovered his talent for speaking, without knowing 
whence he had derived it : he was soon struck with the pomps and misfortunes 
of the old royalty of France, passing from the scaffold to banishment, from the 
throne to exile, from exile to the throne, and then again exchanging the crown 
for banishment. As he saw that each served the legitimate king v^ith the pow- 
ers which heaven had given him — this one with his poetry, that one with his 
sword, another by his nobility, Berryer promised to serve him in a way more 
powerful and useful than all the others united — by his eloquence, and he has 
kept his promise. When he left the bar for the rostrum, private for public busi- 
ness, Charles X. was still the most powerful king in Europe ; and as is the cus- 
tom with powerful kings, he interested himself very little in this new defender, 
who came to him in the midst of his prosperity. What was Berryer under 
Charles X. ? A young avocat, full of talent, it is true, but who wished for ad- 
vancement, in order that he might one day become powerful. But when Charles 
X. had fallen, and the royalty of France had been reconducted to Cherbourg by 
a Parisian avocat, M. Odillon Barrot, then legitimate royalty learned to appre- 
ciate Berryer, its advocate in exile, the last defender of its misfortunes. M. 
Ben-yer perhaps owes more gratitude to the revolution of July than even M. 
Thiers. It made M. Thiers a minister of state — it made M. Berryer the head 
of a party, a noble party, but one which was dejected, conquered, crushed — un- 
fortunate on all sides, as respects courage, public opinion, and devotedness. 
Was not this a touching, a noble action of Berryer's ? When everybody aban- 
doned the legitimate king, when the royalists of France could do little but vent 
their dissatisfaction in useless puns, when each royalist landed proprietor, a roy- 
alist in his very nature, thought of nothing but increasing his revenues, and re- 
newing the leases of his farmers, when M. de Chateaubriand himself, fatigued 
with a struggle of sixty years, bade adieu to the political world, when egotism 
was met everywhere in the France of the royalists, Berryer, Berryer alone, pre- 



^ SI. BERRYER HIS ELOQUENCE. 

sents himself and mounts the breach ; alone he undertakes the defence of these 
annihilated interests ; alone he dares to raise his voice in favor of this discarded 
opinion ; alone, vi^hen the Dutchess de Berri doubly compromises her son's 
cause, by her courage and by her weaknesses. Berry er appears, and covers this 
noble woman with his pardon and his esteem. This is what the revolution of 
July did for M. Berryer, the avocat. It made him the defender of the widow 
and the orphan — but it was a royal widow, it was an orphan who was the king of 
France, the grandson of St. Louis and of Louis XIV. Thus the eyes of all 
royalist Europe were fixed upon M. Berryer ; every word of his resounds to the 
very heart of thrones ; kings invoked him in their anguish, as the mariner in the 
shipwreck invokes Notre Dame de hon Secours. But he pursues his own path, 
and follows, without any deviation, the line which he has marked out for him- 
self; he accuses, he attacks, he condemns, with all his power, what he calls the 
thunderbolt of July. He takes a bitter and malignant joy in gathering up all the 
deceptions, all the falsehoods, all the impostures, all the paradoxes of the revo- 
lution which overturned the throne of Charles X. He attacks it on every side, 
he gives it no quarter ; he turns often to the new powers, and when they com- 
plain bitterly that all authority is broken, that royalty itself is despised, and that 
the people of France have entirely lost the principle of obedience and duty, Ber- 
ryer rises in the midst of the chamber, and darting around him that ironical and 
fiery glance, so perfectly irresistible, "Ji! is you,'" says he, " you who have first 
brolien authority, degraded royalty, destroyed obedience ; do not then complain of 
reaping what you have yourselves sown .'" At the same time, and with perfect 
grace, he returns affectionately to the good days of the restoration, and speaks of 
them as Ovid spoke of Rome and the golden age. Attentive to his least words, 
without believing them, moved and dehghted, and yet mistrusting itself, the 
chamber listens to this man who speaks so well ; it feasts on the sweet honey, 
which hangs on the edge of the vase, while it carefully abstains from swallowing 
the liquor with which it is filled. This Berryer is such a great and eloquent 
counter-revolutionary ! His voice is deep and thrilling, as was the voice of 
Mile. Mars ; his action is noble and elegant ; often he is impassioned even to 
delirium, but it is a well-ordered delirium ; he is himself moved to tears, and 
these tears are almost shared by those around him. He gives himself up, in 
good conscience, that is to say, in perfect liberty, to the intoxication, the auda- 
city of his position, which is superior to all others in this chamber ; he invokes 
to his aid all the powers of the past, all the illusions of time vanished, and not 
one of the principles he invokes fails him. His passion is wise and well regu- 
lated, his very confusion is logical. Although admirably concealed, his powers 
are great and dauntless. Excellent improvisator as he is, he yet knows, very 
well, at the first word of his speech, what he seeks, and by what means he will 
attain the end he proposes to himself. His reasoning is governed by lavi^s, from 
which he never swerves. He commences in a calm and simple manner, he lays 
here and there the first foundations of his dilemma ; by degrees, but without 
letting it appear, he draws the circle of Popilius, in which he intends to stifle 
his adversary ; then, at last, summoning all his strength, as a powerful wrestler 
would do, he crushes his adversary, under the redoubled blows of this eloquence, 
so calm in its exordium, so formidable and so immovable in its peroration. The 
crushed man struggles in vain under this eloquent passion, the approach of 
which he did not feel. 

At other times, M. Berryer, who forms the greatest amusement of the cham- 
ber, plays with his audience, as the cat does with the mouse. He leads the at- 
tentive assembly, through a thousand flowery paths, showing them half his 
thought, under a thousand different aspects, all full of interest. The chamber 
soon yields itself to the delight of listening at its ease; but suddenly, Berryer 
stops and breaks oflf the sentence he had just commenced : he returns, as if he 
had forgotten his duty to follow pleasure — he challenges the minister, who, just 
now hung upon his words open-mouthed, like any simple mortal, and as his is 
a memory which retains everything, without suffering one point to escape him, 
the orator now seizes his prey, tears him to pieces, and throws the shreds among 



M. BERRTER — M. DE FITZ- JAMES. 47 

the deputies who listen to him ; and these same deputies, led away by so much 
eloquence, conquered by so much boldness, have more than once forgotten that 
they were the majority, that they were the friends of the minister, and have ap- 
plauded this implacable enemy of the revolution of July. 

However, he is a man to be pitied, and we Americans, above all, pity him sin- 
cerely — for we do not understand how there can be even one useless person 
among all the eminent men who are in the service of such a country. We do 
not understand how an enlightened country can say to a man : " You will never 
think as I do ; and I shall never think as you do ! It is impossible for you and 
me to be of the same opinion, our obstinacy is equally great. If you were a 
more eminent orator than Demosthenes, all your eloquence would not change 
my opinion by the hundred-thousandth part of a line. Consequently, you are 
good for nothing to me, you are perfectly useless to me ; I can dispense with 
your speech, as I can with your concurrence. My business will be transacted 
without you, and in spite of you. However, you speak like a great orator, and 
it is delightful to me when I can lend to your futile discourses an attentive ear ; 
your speech, without influence over me, is far from being without charms. 
Speak then, I will listen to you ; speak, I will applaud you ; speak, and during 
the whole time, I will share your indignation, your enthusiasm, your hatred, 
your anger ; speak, there is no danger of your swaying my opinion ; but you 
please and enchant me, a hundred times more than my own orators !'' And do 
you not think, my Yankee brothers, that so great a man as Berryer is to be 
pitied, when to such an address, he replies — '■'■ X accepte." 

Not far from M. Berryer, there was but lately, another royalist, of a good 
family, but who had all the right in the world to be a royalist. He had, I was 
told, a noble head, a serene look, an appearance of mingled dignity and sincer- 
ity. He was indeed a nobleman, and in his generous veins, flowed some drops 
of the i-oyal blood of England. With much intellect, an enlightened mind, an 
easy elocution, a simple natural courage — he was called the Due deFitz-James. 
Only to see him — his head raised, his undecided step, at once haughty and easy 
— you would recognise one of the types of the old French nobility, which are 
disappearing, never to return. The duke is called James, after that king of 
England who reigned in the chateau of St. Germain, by permission of Louis 
XIV. ; and indeed. King James was his ancestor. He was, by birth, a duke 
and peer of France, under the legitimate king ; but when royalty had passed, 
the duke thought there was no longer a peerage in the country, that these two 
inheritances sustained each other ; and that, the legitimate king exiled, it was 
necessary that the peer of the kingdom should, at least, leave the palace of the 
Luxembourg. He then became a citizen and a landlord. However, after a 
little reflection, M. de Fitz-James changed his mind, came to the conclusion 
that it was granting the enemy too great an advantage to abandon his party, and 
entered the Chamber of Deputies. Thus placed, among the newly-made mas- 
ters who governed France, M. de Fitz-James represented alone the ancient aris- 
tocracy, which is vanishing day by day ; he had its elegance, its wit, its irony, 
its generosity, its good sense full of ingenuity, its exquisite manners, its diction 
somewhat heavy, but yet clear and lucid. In the midst of this hall, filled with 
citizens of all classes, he had preserved that exquisite politeness, which forms 
such an impassable barrier between a nobleman and his inferiors ; in the cham- 
ber he acted like a well-educated man, who did not wish to annoy any one, but 
who, at the same time, would not be aunoyed himself. When he did the cham- 
ber the honor of addressing it, M. de Fitz-James was quite at his ease, and 
spoke with the most delightful freedom. He showed a grace, exceedingly care- 
less, but at the same time so delicate, that his hearers must have been very badly 
educated not to be pleased with it. In a word, when in a slow quiet voice, he 
repeated to the chamber, a speech made beforehand and learaed by heart, the 
great fear of M. de Fitz-James was, to pass for an orator ; thus, when he was 
eloquent, and this happened often, it was always without knowing it, and above 
all, without wishing it. 

Whoever wished for a striking contrast with the Due de Fitz-James, would 



48 M. DUPIN. 

certainly have chosen M. Dupin. M. Dupin ! he is the rough, obstinate, vio- 
lent, haughty citizen. He is so happy to have attained the point of teaching 
the world ! He is so proud of his power, so proud to see the highest heads 
bowing before hini ! He is so filled with his own importance ! He is called 
Dupin, Dupin Vaine. Speak to him respectfully — as for him, he respects no 
one ; speak to him with trepidation — he fears no one. He is familiar even to 
insolence. I am told, that one day when he was with the king, he struck Louis 
Philippe's shoulder ; upon which, the king, who is almost as great a lord as M. 
de Talleyrand, said, pointing to the door, '^ Sortez .'" M. Dupin did go out, but 
the next day, he was at the king's petit lever, humbly asking after his majesty's 
health. 

This man, who is one of the most eminent men in France, is full of contra- 
dictions. He possesses every kind of courage, and every kind of weakness. 
He is an orator, he is a buffoon ; to-day Cicero, to-morrow Odry ; he passes 
from the quo usque tandem ? to punning, with admirable facility. He is prouder 
of his old lawyer's gown, than the Due de Fitz-James was of his mantle, orna- 
mented with fleurs-de-lis, as a peer of France. He has a common ordinary ap- 
pearance, the small-pox has literally ploughed his face. The peasant of the 
Danube was not worse dressed ; nevertheless, thus built and covered, the pro- 
cur eur- general de la Cour de Cassation carries his head high, and, more than 
once, has asked in a low voice, if M. d'Aguesseau had as good manners' as he. 
Finally, he has his fits of devotedness and courage, he has his days of true and 
sincere modesty, his moments of self-denial. His life is strict, studious, quiet, 
and creditable. To see him, you would recognise a man of probity. He has 
all the virtues of the family, and all its fanaticism. 

By an unusual happiness, the' two bi-others of M. Dupin I'aine, are eminent 
for their science and for their talent. He who is called the Baron Charles Du- 
pin is, so to speak, the inventor of a science quite new in France, that of statis- 
tics : M. Charles Dupin is decidedly one of the eloquent avocats of the Parisian 
bar. He gives himself up completely to his work of each day, in the Chamber 
of Deputies, at the bar, in the world ; full of ideas, mind, eloquence, bons mots, 
fine repartees — above all, an avocat. Thus, the mother of these three, justly 
popular and celebrated men — a woriian happy and proud above all other women, 
chooses that this inscription shall be Written upon her tomb, containing all the 
encomiums of her children — " Here lies the mother of the three Dupins." 

To return to M. Dupin I'aine, he has had the happiness of lending his aid to 
noble causes ; he was the generous defender of Marshal Ney, and that itself is 
an honor. His very trifling has served to make him popular : he engages and 
animates his audience, not like M. Berry er, by the beauty of his speech, but by 
its drollery ; he has an excellent judgment, sound and correct powers of reason- 
ing ; he is a man of good sense, of common sense, and therefore a man of busi- 
ness ; a worthy person in the main, full of vanity, but incapable of a bad action, 
passionate, but easy to appease, despising revolutions as excesses which cost too 
much, honoring gentlemen with his hatred, having but little affection for sol- 
diers, and despising money-hunters. A secret instinct makes him love power, 
even when it is not he, M. Dupin, who is the power. A man equally hated and 
loved — he is loved with hatred, if I may be allowed to say so ; it is at least thus, 
that he is loved by the king Louis Philippe, whom he calls his friend, and who 
is afraid of his clownishness. When at the palace, he makes a thousand blun- 
ders, that he may appear to be at home ; he is not at his ease, and in order to 
conceal this, he is bearish. He is the animal in the fable giving his paw. The 
queen has much difficulty in behaving herself with this ill-bred man, who will 
neither be a citizen nor a nobleman. In business he is a troublesome man, but 
one with whose assistance you can not always dispense. He is wilful, head- 
strong, obstinate, passionate, illiberal, to-day triumphing in his insolence, to- 
morrow prostrate in his fear. In order that people may say he is impartial, he 
suddenly abandons his friends, and passes to the opposite side. At the Cham- 
ber of Deputies, he resembles Harpagon's servant, who changed his dress by 
turns — now a cook, now a coachman. He leaves his president's chair to mount 



PERE LA CHAISE M. DULONG M. SAUZET. 49 

the rostrum, and then speaks in such a way that he is called to order ! When 
he wishes to speak seriously, the man of business shines. He would have been 
an excellent orator, if he had not been so clever an avocat ; and would have 
been an excellent avocat, if he had not possessed so many qualities necessary 
to form an orator. 

He is a member of the Academic Francaise, and writes French, like an attor- 
ney's clerk. 

" Monsieur," said I to my left-hand neighbor, " can you point out to me a 
man who played an important part in your last revolution, M. Dupont de I'Eure ? 
Is he here ? Show him to me, that I may be able to say, ' I have seen him.' " 
As I spoke, I ti'ied to discover that austere gray head. " Monsieur," replied my 
neighbor, "do not seek Dupont de I'Eure in this assembly; M. Dupont de 
I'Eure no longer forms part of the Chamber of Deputies ; he has left it since 
the day the unfortunate Dulong, whom he loved as a son, was killed in a duel. 
In that place, below, was Dulong seated, when he pronounced, loud enotigh to 
be heard, those impnident words. Unhappy youth ! He had attacked a soldier, 
honor required blood : twenty-four hours after this sad meeting, Dulong was 
dead, struck by a ball in the forehead. And I, sir, I, who speak to you, followed 
the funeral train, I mounted the sad heights of the cemetery of Pere la Chaise. 
What a collection of uuhouored tombs, of splendid mausoleums, of foreign in- 
scriptions. You are a stranger, sir : well I do not leave Paris without having 
visited this inmiense Campo-santo, so pitilessly opened, to devour all Parisian 
grandeur. "Picture to yourself a boundless city, of which each house is still, 
gloomy, and closed ; there, nothing is wanting, neither bronze, nor marble, nor 
turf, nor flowers, nor statues erect upon their pedestals, nor anything which con- 
stitutes grace, ornament, and beauty — nothing is wanting, except life and motion. 
Poor Dulong ! so young to reach this last asylum ! Thus we conducted him to 
the appointed spot ; and, once there, the funeral oration took possession of this 
melancholy booty. Adieu, Dulong ! adieu, young man ! adieu, joy of thine 
aged father ! adieu, energetic defender of compromised liberty ! Sir, you may 
take my word for it, public interest has sustained some severe losses within ten 
years — Benjamin Constant, Lamarque, Dulong, Casimir Perier himself, and, 
finally, Armand Carrel." 

So said my neighbor, and as his grief was real, and deeply felt, I respected it, 
and contented myself with my own feeble resources, for studying the physiogno- 
my of the Chamber of Deputies. 

That tall man, who is half bald, and yet whose hair hangs loose (reconcile 
that if you can), whom you see seated in the president's chair, with a look of 
good-natured self-satisfaction, is M. Sauzet. M. Sauzet is the exact prototype 
of a provincial avocat. I am quite sure that in court, at Lyons, he has often 
heard himself compared to Cicero and Demosthenes — and who knows ? perhaps 
even to Mr. Pitt and Mr. Fox — and that he has allowed these comparisons. 
He is a man of considerable mind, but thoroughly imbued with that vulgar ora- 
tory which foams and ferments in him with so much glitter and noise, throwing 
out less fire than smoke, and producing more froth than alcohol. That he has 
entered the world with many great oratorical thoughts, and, above all, with a 
thorough mastery of the French language, no one can doubt. But for elo- 
quence of such magnitude, space was wanted. Fancy the column of the Place 
Vendome transplanted into the centre of a Norman farmer's poultry-yard, and 
you will have some idea of the eloquence of M. Sauzet, condemned to the 
petty quarrels and party walls of the city of Lyons. You will then see that M. 
Sauzet would soon have been spoilt by the citizens, the most cruel of all pas- 
sionate admirers. Nothing but principle has restrained him, and he passed 
easily, and by an imperceptible transition, from the school-benches to the bar. 
He found every path open, and every ear ready to listen to him. Above all, he 
is a happy man ; happy to live, to breathe, to walk ; and so happy to be called 
Sauzet ! He reached Paris, from the seclusion of his province, to take at once 
an important part in the greatest drama which has been played in France since 
the eighteenth of Brumaire. I refer to the trial of the ministers of his ex- 

4 



so TRIAL OF M. DE POLIGNAC SPEECH OF M. SAUZET. 

majesty Charles X., in 1830 ; a memorable and solemn proceeding, in which all 
the dignity of justice was displayed at the very time when all the popular fury was 
fearfully roused. Imagine the Chamber of Peers — that last support of legiti- 
mate royalty, that still lively image of proscribed legitimacy — assembling to 
judge, first and finally, the last ministers, and consequently the last will of 
Charles X., who had been the favorite monarch of the peerage. At the same 
time, imagine the people of Paris, after their triumph and exultation of three 
days, surrounding the Chamber of Peers, well armed, and seeming to dictate, 
by their menacing attitude, sentence of death. For the Chamber of Peers, this 
was a terrible alternative ; it was judge in its own case, and wo be to it if it did 
not decide justly I It was the same chamber which had put Marshal Ney to 
death, the hero of the campaign of 1812, the friend of the emperor, " the bravest 
of the brave :" by what right, then, could they save this unpopular ministry, 
who had laid violent hands upon the charter and upon the people ? On the 
other hand, how could the peerage — which had been the support of the now- 
subverted throne, and which perhaps had secretly shared its hopes and its de- 
lirium — how could it escape public disgrace, if, too obedient to popular malice, 
a malice which had been accumulating since 1815, it sent to the scaffold the 
king's ministers, deputies, peers of France, men of their own rank and standard ? 
The dilemma was terrible, death or dishonor ; but we must render this justice 
to the French peerage, that between these two difficulties it remained calm. In 
vain the people gathered at the Luxembourg, in vain the national guard,. the 
dictatorship of the revolution of 1830, talked loudly of exigency — the Chamber 
of Peers listened, deliberated, and weighed. When M. de Polignac appeared 
in the seats of the accused, that great lord, who had defied, with a contempt 
which amounted almost to insolence, all the hatred of the French nation, the 
Chamber of Peers was neither abashed, nor did it lose its composure. It nei- 
ther leaned to the people, who were crying under its windows for blood, nor to 
the accused, whom, a few days previously, it had called brother. It was at this 
awful moment, that, making his way with much difficulty through the furious 
crowd that opposed his passage, a provincial avocat — who had never pleaded 
anything but provincial causes, before provincial judges, and at provincial bars — 
found himself suddenly transplanted into the first court in the kingdom, a su- 
preme court, and called to speak in a cause in which the whole revolution was 
concerned. The ministers of Charles X. — did they exceed their powers, in 
signing the ordinances ? Acquit them ! but then observe what follows : "The 
revolution of 1830 is a felony!" It was well for M. Sauzet that he was born 
the most courageous of men, and that he had such an excellent opinion of him- 
self as not to draw back, even had he been in the presence of Mirabeau. At 
this time, his ignorance of what was fitting, in the society around him, his pro- 
found contempt for all that was not M. Sauzet, was of great service to him. 
Nothing astonished him — neither the people so agitated, nor the assembly so 
calm, nor the judges who were the judges of their own honor, nor the vanquished 
ministers, whose heads were demanded : a party wall, or a water-course, or a 
question upon mortgage, would not have found M. Sauzet more calm, or more 
at his ease. Thus, while his colleagues hesitated, while one of them, instead 
of defending his learned client, found it more simple and natural to faint, like a 
coquette who knows not how to reply, M. Sauzet took up the discourse, and 
calling to his aid a brilliant train of high-sounding words, dazzling periphrasis, 
and antithesis, lavishing here and there, in rich confusion, the newly-blown flow- 
ers of his provincial rhetoric, M. Sauzet astonished and confounded his audi- 
ence. The judges, so preoccupied with the sentence to be passed, were amazed 
at the copiousness and composure of this new-comer, and the longer he spoke, 
the better were they pleased with his speaking. Indeed, this long discourse, in 
such circumstances, was something more than a discourse — it was a respite, a 
temporary cessation of the storm, a shelter during the tempest. The judges of 
M. de Polignac, while M. Sauzet addressed them, had time to look at each 
other, and the longer he spoke, the more apparent was it that a cause which 
could be defended for so long a time, and with so many reasons, was not so des- 



M. MAUGUIN M. DE CORMENIN. 51 

perate as had at first been imagined. Thus the verbose sang-froid of the avocat 
rendered an eminent service to the Chamber of Peers and the revolution of 
July. To the Chamber of Peers, M. Sauzet gave time to recover, and to save 
itself by a sentence which was neither a cowardice nor a subterfuge. The revo- 
lution of July, in sparing the lives of the accused ministers, deprived itself for 
ever — and what a triumph was this, for a revolution which had been guilty of 
so few exeesses I — of the disgrace of political executions. French society, 
seeing that, in this great struggle, no one was killed, and better yet, no one was 
dishonored, breathed more freely, and began to hope for better fortune. As for 
M. Sauzet— incapable of understanding what was passing around him, and not 
knowing very exactly either what he had said or what he had doiie — he rubbed 
his hands with pleasure, and said to himself, that " since he had spoken so well 
on behalf of ministers, he should some day become a minister himself;" which 
has not failed to happen. 

Do you see, on the seats of the moderate opposition, that man who more fre- 
quently wears an old hat than a new one ? He looks very proud, very witty, 
and very sarcastic, and his mind keeps all the promises, made by his appearance; 
that man is M. Mauguin. He, also, is an avocat, but he is fluent, eager, gene- 
rous, nay more, he speaks from conviction. "What does he wish ? No one 
knows ; he does not know himself. Where is he going ? He is as ignorant on 
this point as the other. Whence comes he? The question would be foolish, 
he can not tell you. He is chimerical and capricious, but resolute and generous. 
Like any man who understands it, he loves political strife ; he finds nothing but 
pleasure in oratorical battles ; he gives himself up to them with delight ; he has 
studied much and learned but little; however, he is less ignorant upon all points 
than the greater part of his fellow-members; he has made ministers, and yet has 
not wished to be one himself; this is a great point of difterence between him 
and M. Sauzet. 

Thus left to himself, floating between the two extremes of his opinion, a re- 
publican this evening, a royalist to-morrow, eager and idle, sometimes speaking 
like an orator, sometimes like an avocat ; a man of the world in reality, but not 
in appearance ; M. Mauguin seems to be placed by the side of M. Odillon Bar- 
rot, to show ofl" the faults and virtues of the latter. You can see at once, that 
M. Odillon Barrot is not of the same school as M. Mauguin. He has a quiet, 
severe, almost imposing look. He possesses some of the finest qualities of an 
orator, the power of enchaining his audience, the courage, the conviction, the 
strict and sound principles, the integrity, and disinterestedness, and Avithal, but 
little wish for the exercise of power. His voice is one of those most listened to, 
and most loved in the chamber, for it is honest and sincere. If the United States 
were in want of an orator, and had permission to choose one from the whole 
chamber, I would advise them to take M. Barrot. He is the prototype of real 
orators. His logic is earnest and hurried, he is the most hardy tilter in the 
world, his indignation bursts and thunders, but always with a certain measure, 
which persuades you the more easily, because this very indignation has taught 
you something. The warmest partisans of M. Odillon Barrot, reproach him 
with this one fault only, his eloquence has too much grace, too much clearness, 
too much learning, and is too much studied. 

Among orators who speak but little, and whom very few have heard, 
you have M. de Cormenin. The enemies of M. de Cormenin gravely 
reproach him with having been a viscount; and honestly, a serious man, an 
American, smiles with pity when he hears a man reproached with having been a 
viscount. Reproach a man, if you will, with his bad actions, his cowardice, his 
perfidy, but to reproach him with being, or having been, a viscount, is perfectly 
ridiculous. Nevertheless, this is the policy of France, at the present time. 
However this may be — whether M. de Cormenin has been, or has not been, a 
viscount, or whether he is one no longer — one thing is certain, that he is, and 
long will be, an insidious and dangerous writer. He was brought up m the 
school of a terrible pamphleteer, Paul Louis Courrier, who much injured the 
Restoration ; and he copies wonderfully, his tone, his turns, his style, his man- 



52 M. ROTER-COLLARD — MM. ARAGO AND BE LAMARTINE. 

ners, his indignation. Not but what such a style would be wearisome for any 
length of time, but in their novelty, pamphlets thus written, quickly produce an 
irritating impression in the mind. M. de Cormenin knows this, better than any 
one, and as he is incapable of pronouncing four consecutive sentences, in the 
rostrum, he makes himself amends for this forced silence by a succession of 
little pamphlets, very bitterly written, which have their popularity, and their 
dreaded influence. M. de Cormenin is, above all, the sworn enemy of the king, 
Louis Philippe, and the princes his children. He reckons in livres, sous, and 
deniers, their revenues, their public and private expenses ; he disputes the civil 
list inch by inch ; he does not choose that the king should be better dressed, 
better lodged, or better fed, than M. de Cormenin. He is terrified when any 
one says, the children of France ; and is as thorough a republican as if he had 
never been a viscount. He is, without contradiction, a man of lively and inge- 
nious, but malicious disposition ; one of those men who can hurt, who can 
never serve, and who are good for nothing but evil ; men whom Plato would 
certainly have banished from his republic, but without giving them crowns of 
flowers as he did the poets. 

We must not forget, in his comer, liis obscurity, and his silence, one of the 
most dangerous malcontents in the Chamber of Deputies, M. Royer-Collard, the 
originator of the doctrinaires ; unhappy father ! so cruelly outreached and con- 
quered by his own children. People talk of the ingratitude of republics, but I 
do not see, that under a monarchy, the ingratitude shown to public men is much 
less. This man, of rare wit, of strong virtue, has been, by his merit alone, one 
of the most imposing men in France. Seven electoral colleges appointed hira 
deputy the same day, an almost incredible, and a distinguished honor. He was 
at once the head of the new philosophy, and the modern politics, he first united 
those two words on which still rest the whole future of France. A constitution- 
al royalist, he fought for a long time, under this double standard — the chartei- 
and the king! It may be believed, that when at last the charter had superseded 
the king, M. Royer-Collard was not a little astonished and unhappy at finding 
one of the two objects of his worship broken and overthrown. Thus, since all 
equilibrium has been lost between the constitution and royalty, M. Royer-Col- 
lard is ill at ease, and miserable ; he has lost the double passion of his life. He 
does not know whether to rejoice at the triumph of the constitution, or to be 
afflicted at the fall of royalty. He loved the royalty of the Bourbons ; he loved 
their ancient origin, their great actions in peace and in war, their chivalrous dis- 
interestedness, their loyalty, which has passed into a proverb, and even now he 
can not understand how Charles X. could have violated the charter which he 
recognised by his oath. Sometimes M. Royer-Collard reproaches himself, in a 
low voice, for having perhaps driven to the last extremity, this feeble and obsti- 
nate monarch, and says to himself, that perhaps with a little less rigor, the old 
royalty of France would still be erect, and that thus the constitution might have 
gained th* point, of not being violently separated, as it had been, from the royal 
principle. What a sad and venerable position is that of this man, who is a 
royalist in his heart, who believes in legitimacy, with all the powers of his mind, 
and who yet sees himself carried away by a revolution which he has brought 
about without wishing it. 

This sketch of the Chamber of Deputies, incomplete as it must necessarily 
be, when taken by a man like myself, but little acquainted with the very compli- 
cated and confused affairs of a country in revolution, which has not yet had 
time to recover itself, nevertheless interested me highly. I trembled to think 
that all these men, so different in manners, opinions, and fortunes, agitated by 
so many opposite feelings, v/ere destined to make the laws which govern such a 
country as France. I was alarmed at this interesting confusion. Here M. 
Arago, the most learned man in Europe, who descends from the observatory and 
the sky, to mingle in all the troubles of earth; there, M. de Lamartine, the 
Christian poet, thinking and speaking marvellously like a clever economist of 
taxes, of agriculture, and of railroads. A little farther, M. Bugeaud, the soldier,^ 
the inexorable, mounting the rostrum, as if he were about to storm a fortress. 



MM. ROTHSCHILD AND LAFITTE. 53 

and menacing his adversaries at the sarae time with his pistols and his opinions, 
his sword and his speech. M. Dubois, a gloomy spirit full of pedantry, who, 
because he was for six mouths a writer in a joui'nal but little read, and an ob- 
scure philosopher, fancies that he is always an author and a philosopher. M. 
Duvergier de Hauranne, one of those men who are born grumblers, of a gloomy 
temper, deadly anger, friendship but little to be depended upon, unyielding logic 
and surly speech, the worthy great-grand-nephew of that severe abbe de St. 
Cyran, the tyrant of Port Royal. M. Hennequin, an avocat, but an avocat of 
elegant language and good manners, who has read Cicero and remembers it. M. 
Humann, a German from Strasbourg, speaking German in French, but with a 
voice so powerful that the shields move at the sound of it and range themselves 
in order, as formerly the Theban walls did when Amphion played upon his lyre. 
M. Isambert, one of the most noisy, and least active ministers of the chamber, a 
man who much needed legitimate royalty that his opposition might have some 
appearance of valor; such men as he have been buried — themselves and their 
importance — under the wrecks of the throne of Charles X. M. Jaubert, a sort of 
van-guard orator, who throws himself headlong into every question where 
his courage urges him on. M. Theodore Jouffra}^ a fine head and a noble 
heart. He is dead, overwhelmed by work and a pitiless disease, which gently 
led him to the tomb. M. Theodore Jouffray was the best pupil in Plato's 
school ; he had the sweet gravity, the charming unction of his master ; a man 
wrapped up in modesty, who concealed, with the most original care, his science, 
his ideas, his eloquence, all except his melancholy and his good natitre. M. 
de Keratry, a rough gentleman from Bretagne who looks exactly like a well- 
educated blacksmith. The opposition has acknowdedged M. de Keratry for one 
of its heroes. And whom else do you see in the crowd ? A man who has been 
the master of France and of opinion, who has doubly reigned by the power of 
speech and of money. He walked through France more envied, and above all, 
more loved, more honored, than a king. When he happened to pass through 
the streets the crowd was silent, and pointed him out with a respectful look, 
saying in a low voice, "There he is!" Rothschild is, they say, the banker of 
kings; but they are wrong to say that he is the king of bankers. The king of 
bankers was M. Lafitte when he was the banker and the business-man of the 
whole opposition. M. Lafitte made himself the avowed Meccenas of all the 
talents which were formidable, or which promised to be formidable to power. 
He had furnished the first capital for creating the Consiitutionnel, that old cata- 
pult — rather ruinous at present — so powerful fifteen years ago. He entertained 
at his house a certain finance officer called Beranger, who has since made singu- 
lar havoc in men's minds. This house of M. Lafitte's was a sort of harbor 
whence they started with all sails set, for battle, and to which they returned 
after the contest loaded with crowns. One day lauded at M. Lafitte's, full of 
hope, and light of purse, a new-comer from the southern provinces. He had 
the proudest look, the boldest speech, the most easy and animated gestures, the 
most lively eloquence, the most brilliant style, the best-informed intellect, the 
happiest hope, that can easily be seen. This new-comer was M. Thiers. He 
installed himself at M. Lafitte's as in a great inn, open to all restless minds, and 
the eclat of which could only be paid at the price of a revolution. 

But while we are studying these countenances, and these thoughts, four or 
five orators have succeeded each other in the rostnim ; each of them has spoken 
with eagerness and warmth, as convinced men do speak. What have they said? 
The chamber scarcely knows ; she hardly listens except to the great orators ; to 
all the others she is inattentive, impatient, cross, and when at last the cote gauche, 
the cSte. droit, and the centre, have each given their best reasons, the chamber 
proceeds to the ballot, and the law is passed. 



54 THE CHAMBER OF DEPUTIES ITS POWER. 

* 

CHAPTER XIV. 

THE CHAMBER OF DEPUTIES. 

The Palace of the Tuileries is not far from the Chamber of Deputies ; these 
two moDuments are by turns, friends and rivals, who look at each other, some- 
times with hatred, sometimes with love. There was a time when the Chamber 
of Deputies rose proud and menacing against the palace of the Tuileries. It 
was a strange struggle of stone with stone, column with column, the results of 
which a bystander might have studied hour by hour. The palace of the king — 
proudly enveloped in its majesty, surrounded by its statues, its guards, its old 
chestnut-trees, and its forest of blossoming orange-trees, covered with its con- 
tempt and its disdainful shadow, the Chamber of Deputies, exposed to the sun, 
and guarded only by some pitiful stone statues which adorned the Pont de la 
Concorde. At the first glance an inexperienced man would have believed that the 
humble house, sad and naked — without exterior defence, without guards, with- 
out shade — would never have dared to struggle with these royal and magnificent 
dwellings, surrounded by ditches, yeomen, and body-guards. What could these 
four or five dozen of chattering avocats do against the king of France, the le- 
gitimate king, the master of thirty-two millions of subjects, the head of the 
state, the restorer of authority and belief? So thought frivolous observers, 
those who see nothing of strength but its appearances, and who think a man is a 
Hercules because he has the height and the countenance of one. But it is not 
only strength of muscles ,which makes a Hercules, it is courage. It is not can- 
non, soldiers, guards, ditches, all the framewoi'k of majesty, which protect 
palaces most successfully, it is the will of the people. That Chamber of Depu- 
ties which looks so pale, on the opposite shore, that house, pitiful even in its 
size, that silent facade, that great wall, pierced by a little door, those large stair- 
cases, up which six thousand" soldiers might mount to the assault ; all this appears 
very feeble and as if it would offer very little resistance ; all this, nevertheless, 
is strength, it is power, it is authority, it is France. This humble house — in 
which all the laws are passed, in which are discussed, one by one, all the crowns 
of the annual thousand million — looks without fear at this palace of the Tuile- 
ries which faces it ; one single fragment of stone falling from this humble house 
upon the king's palace, would suffice to crush it. The Chamber of Deputies 
knows very well that it protects, and feeds, and shelters the palace against storm 
and tempest. It is not, then, without a certain interest, that, placed on one of 
the numerous bridges which unite the palace of the Tuileries to the Chamber 
of Deputies, you compare these two monuments, the one so large, so grand, so 
formidable, so royal, and nevertheless so feeble, compared with this house of 
legislators. 

Well then! in July, 1830, some discontented orators raised their voices, with- 
in this enclosure of the Chamber of Deputies, apparently so peaceful. These 
few voices, already menacing, demanded that royalty, led astray by fatal counsels, 
should rest in the constitution. Royalty replied by a coup d^etat. The chateau 
des Tuileries would impose silence on the Chamber of Deputies ; immediately 
the Chamber of Deputies opened its doors, or rather, it half-opened that Avretch- 
ed little door, through which the lowest gentleman in waiting on Charles X. 
would not have deigned to pass, and througTi this half-opened door a revolution 
escaped. Scarcely had this terrible revolution left the Chamber of Deputies, 
before it threw itself on the palace of the Tuileries, but already the palace of 
the Tuileries was deserted. After its first moment of insolence, the old royalty 
had fled, never to return. Immediately the saturnalia commenced. The peo- 
ple took possession of the palace, they reigned a second time in the same places 
where they had formerly sought King Louis XVI., the martyr king, that they 
might carry him to a detestable scaffold, on which, fear and cowardice, each day, 
heaped victims upon victims. The people recognised their Tuileries, and treat- 



LOUIS PHILIPPE WHEN DUKE OF ORLEANS. 55 

ed it, according to their custom and theii- right ; they broke, they spoiled, they 
tarnished, all they met. They seated themselves on the venerable throne, amid 
shouts of laughter ; they called to their aid the king's cellar, and very soon, the 
ground was strewed with empty bottles, and intoxicated heroes. The palace 
was filled, for three days, with this monarch of such awful majesty ; the third 
day, when there was no longer a fleur-de-lis to efface, nor a bottle to empty, 
two or three men drove the sovereign people out of the walls, and these tenible 
conquerors of three days returned home, trembling with fright, lest they should 
be scolded by their wives. The French people, even in their greatest disorders, 
always presei-ve a marvellous sense of propriety. They remained in the Tuil- 
eries just long enough, to recognise the places they had visited forty years be-, 
fore, and may France willingly accept this bargain, forty years of authority and 
obedience, for three days of delirium and fury. 



CHAPTER XV. 

THE KING OF THE FRENCH. 

But how then can we describe Paris, without speaking of the king of the 
French? It is a difficult task, full of uncertainty and peril, and yet we will at- 
tempt the enterprise, in order that this rapid coup d'oeil, thrown upon the Pa- 
risian world, may be as complete as possible. You have already seen, that ever 
and anon, at every turn, in the city and out of the city, everywhere, the king of 
the French has presented himself to our notice, to our remembrance, to our 
study ; let us then give him a chapter to himself, it will not be the one the least 
read, in this sketch of Paris. 

The king of whom we speak, has been tried by every kind of fortune — exile 
has passed over his head, without bending it. Like all the French, he has been 
the very devoted subject of his majesty Louis XVIIL, and his majesty Charles 
X. of august and sainted memory. He has acted like a man, in the opposition ; 
but his opposition was calm, austere, patient — for in these days, it is by patience, 
that crowns are gained and saved. But what courage and what composure are 
necessary, thus to wait for forty years, until the hour of royalty has struck for 
you. Thus his majesty. King Louis Philippe has been more than patient, he 
#ias been an honest man. This part, of first prince of the blood royal, of first 
subject of the king of France, suited him admirably ; it suited his manners, his 
tastes, his wish to remake a ruined fortune, and to bring up, as he thought prop- 
er, the young and numerous family, reserved for this illustrious destiny. You 
would deceive yourself, then, if you fancied the Duke of Orleans, dreaming of 
the crown worn by the king, his cousin. He neither waited for it, nor hoped 
for it, and more still, he did not desire it. This throne attacked, but attacked 
by other means than legal opposition, would have found in the Duke of Orleans, 
a loyal defender. Was he not, in fact, the worthy grandson of the Regent of 
Orleans, that loyal trustee of the crown of France, an honest gentleman, prouder 
to preserve the throne to its rightful heir, than to place upon it a prince of his 
own Hbuse? 

It is impossible, then, to say that the royalty of the Duke of Orleans was 
foreseen by him. Three days before the " three days," no one knew — not even 
M. de Lafayette — that he was about to ascend the throne of France. However, 
in his moments of humiliation and anger — for he was often ill-treated at that 
court, so full of power and caprice — the Duke of Orleans must have said to him- 
self, " God protects France, but he also protects me. He has brought back 
from exile myself and my children, but he has brought me back in the retinue 



56 LODis Philippe's accession to the throne — his character. 

of the king ; to the king, God has restored his crown, but to me, he has given 
a numerous family, full of life, strength, courage, and the future ; I have near 
me, to draw all hearts to me, a wife loved and honored by all ; in this country, 
where fortune is everything in the estimation of men, I am the richest land- 
holder ; I belong to the old liberals, by the remembrances of '89; I belong to 
lajeune France, by my five sons, whose honored names resound each year, in 
the collegiate struggles ; I belong to the most ancient houses of Europe, by my 
name of Bourbon: I am a master in the painter's atelier, on the bricklayer's 
scaffolding, in the poet's study ; and if a man of talent is crushed in his ambi- 
tion or his glory, that man of talent I take under my protection. I am as strong 
• a skeptic, as my wife is a Christian ; and now let me wait, like a man of honor, 
like a good father of a family, like a faithful subject, for whatever the future re- 
Serves for me." 

You know the thunderbolt of the three days of July, 1830, and how, with one 
blow, fell that benevolent, devoted, inoffensive monarchy, to whom ungrateful 
France had been indebted for fifteen years of glory, of liberty, of repose, of al- 
most incredible fortune. It was broken, with the senseless delight of children, 
Avho break a plaything which pleases and charms them. However, it was ne- 
cessary to replace this king of France, who had returned into exile. These 
hours of interregnum are grievous and terrible for a people who need order and 
authority. Whom shall they obey ? How can it be arranged, so that among 
these thirty-two millions of kings which France contains, each shall be content- 
ed to abdicate in favor of one ? Between the dynasty which leaves, and that 
which arrives, between the noble vanquished of Cherbourg, this king so great 
in defeat, so calm, so touching, who returns into exile with a step as firm as if 
the chateau of the Tuileries had been at the end of his voyage, between the 
king crowned at Rheims, and the king of the revolution of July, what an abyss ! 
However, people cry, " Vive le roi .'" from necessity, from remembrance, from 
habit, from the instinct of a fellowship which is imperishable. " Vive le roi .'" — 
say what you will, this will always be a saving cry in France. At this conquer- 
ing sound, the France of 1830 is appeased, Europe is quieted, the old mon- 
archies feel less unstable ; the citizens, proud and happy Avith their victory, shut 
themselves up in their intrenchments ; the people, satisfied with themselves, re- 
turn to their daily labors. In this France, so thoroughly overturned, everything 
recommences at the cry of " Vive le roi /" And certainly France ought to con- 
sider itself very happy to have met, at this terrible and awful moment, this popu- 
lar king, who comes, through toru-up pavements and the anger of a whole city, 
to put everything in its place, after the revolution of three days. 

It is not that this gentleman king, in spite of the revolution which crowned 
him, has not, in his mind and heart, all the instincts of royalty. On the con-^ 
trary, he loves royalty, like a man who knows how to hold a sceptre, and to wear 
a crown ; he loves its pomps, its fetes, its ceremonies, and its privileges. He 
seems never to have enough grandeur, and enough eclat around him. His de- 
light M'ould be to surround himself with a brilliant court, to which crowd all the 
great monarchical names. He knows exactly how much warmth and deference 
is due to new men and new virtues. He has the twofold instinct of the gentleman 
and the Parisian citizen, the grandson of Saint Louis and the king of the revo- 
lution of July. His life is grave, industrious, and serious. He often rises be- 
fore daybreak : as soon as he awakes, his work begins. He reads the despatches 
of his ambassadors, he prepares the labor of the day, you see that he acts, from 
a knowledge of the importance of one additional day in his reign. He^ads 
very few newspapers, except the English ones, but he tolerates them all. ^.''ou 
would find, in the king's ante-chamber, by the side of the sheets which defend 
his government with the greatest amount of conscience and courage — the vilest 
and most atrocious pamphlets against his person. He says that every one must 
live, that a pamphlet never killed any but dead men, and that he accepted the 
inconveniences of the liberty of the press, in accepting its advantages. His 
breakfast is soon finished, after which it is his ministers' tvirn ; with these he 
lives in the greatest familiarity. The man whom he adopts, has at once, at all 



AS A POLITICAL ACCESSIBILITY OF THE KING. 57 

times, a free admission to the king ; he is received at any hour of the day or 
night. The king espouses the cause of his minister as he would his own ; he 
takes an interest in his success in the rostrum, in his success of every kind ; he 
defends hii^i warmly and sincerely, and when he is obliged to displace him, he 
never says "Adieu," but "Au revoir." These gone, he adopts those who come, 
as he had adopted their predecessors — so accustomed is tViis constitutional 
king to the complicated and difficult mechanism of a representative govern- 
ment. 

The king prefers this chatting without ceremony, but not without advantage, 
with each of his ministers, to the imposing discussion of a cabinet-council ; 
when he is tete-a-tete with a man, he is almost always irresistible. He is elo- 
quent, he conquers, he takes captive every will ; if the king wishes to gain a man, 
he accosts him in the way most likely to suit him, and when once he wins him 
over, he succeeds in his end. It is incredible what he did, with M. Lafitte, in 
the first days of the revolution of July. " Follow us, gentlemen !" Thus 
spoke he to the members of the Chamber of Deputies, while holding M. Lafitte 
by the arm. " Follow us !" This was making M. Lafitte a partaker of the 
throne of France. Thus General Lafayette knew him well. More than once 
he repaired to the new king, quite ready to show some of those puerile discon- 
tents which have formed a large part of the popularity of General Lafayette; he 
returned from him overwhelmed and astounded. . 

Thus the life of the king is spent : in studying, in the morning ; in reflecting, 
during the night, upon the feeUngs of the day ; in defending himself during the 
day, or in making new friendships, for he does not disdain one friendship in his 
kingdom. The workman who passes him, or the peer of France who salutes 
him, must go away satisfied with the king. His famiharity is at once dignified 
and frank. His good sense is exquisite, even its severity is tempered by a 
grace only to be found in him. He detests the smoke of tobacco, and thinks 
that, in a royal chateau, the smell of it is abominable ; but as every one smokes 
at the present day, he has found a way of complaining of it which offends no 
one. One day Marshal Loban came, his clothes being impregnated with the 
smoke of a whole corps. " Stop," said the king, " diey say that I have a 
will, and yet I can not prevent my footmen from smoking in my ante-chamber, 
which annoys me." He likes to see himself surrounded by visiters, solicit- 
ors, people who are departing for, or returning from, a distance — and it is very 
rarely that he does not speak to them fluently in their own language, or that 
he has not himself seen the countries which they visit. 

From noon to three o'clock, he receives those who wish to speak to him. 
He has for all a word of encouragement, of precedent, of advice. As he 
has sustained the greatest reverses of fortune, he also can say, "■Nihil humani 
a me alienum ;" and he speaks to each appropriately — to the artist, of paint- 
ings and statues ; to the manufacturer, of workmen and machines ; to politi- 
cians, of M. de Metternich, of the emperor of Russia, of all those men who 
lead the world : and he afifects, when he speaks of them, to be full of cour- 
tesy, for he is well acquainted with all the hard speeches which are made 
against him at the courts of Europe, but he consoles himself with the thought 
that, but for him, the courts of Europe would have had other occupations 
than slander and calumny. His learning is extensive, his memory tenacious, 
his look imposing ; he is easy of access ; whoever wishes to see him, has 
only to repair to the Tuileries on public reception-days. You may enter, by 
giving your name at the door, and putting a little embroidery on your dress. 
At first, his majesty walks round the saloon, saying something polite to each 
of the invited ladies, speaking to each in her own language ; and sometimes, 
at every step, he is obliged to change the question and the language ! Then, 
in their turn, the gentlemen pass before the king, when he raises his head, 
fixes his looks upon you, and awes you by the dignity of his manner. 

Around him, everything is naturally arranged, with a view to future history. 
He has discovered an admirable method of doing several great things ; it is, 
to save from their ruin the monuments which are crumbling to dust — it is 



58 THE RESTOREK OF PALACES TKE REUNIONS AT THE TUILERIES. 

to finish those which are begun. Thus he saved Versailles ; thus he placed 
the last stone on the Arc de Triomphe de I'Etoile. 

France would entreat him to commence the Louvre, but the king hesitates 
to undertake this immense work at his own expense ; but when the sad day 
comes, that he is taken ill, a sure method of giving him ten years more of 
Ufe, would be to vote him the twenty millions which he asks, to add to the 
sixty, which he himself is willing to spend, in finishing the Louvre. "What 
he has done with his private houses is admirable. At the Chateau d'Eu, 
where he goes once a year, he has repaired and rebuilt everything, from the 
chapel in which the old Guises are buried, to the kitchens, which, one would 
fancy, were dug for some Charlemagne, accompanied by his knights of the 
Round Table. He has just sent a marble statue of the good Henry to the 
Chateau de Pau, one of the cradles of the house of Bourbon. And the Cha- 
teau de Fontainebleau, what a wonder ! The brilliant art of the sixteenth 
century, aided by the magnificence and gallantry of King Francis L, had pro- 
duced nothing more ingenious and more magnificent ; but time and the Em- 
peror Napoleon passed that way ; time had destroyed, the Emperor Napoleon 
had arranged everything according to his own fancy, and in its repairs, still 
more than in its ruins, the palace of Fontainebleau could not be recognised. 
The king has sav^ed it ; he has brought out, from under this rubbish and 
this.daubing, Richeheu and Jean Goiijon. Li this way he is always thorough 
in his repairs, just as he is in those things which form the luxury and the 
comfort of life : the king is the most finished of men. He gives a dinner 
every day, at which he receives all the great people of Europe. He chooses 
that his table should be handsomely served : people quote, as models, his cellar, 
his dining-room, his kitchens, his plate. He loves to receive visiters, as well 
as to give dinners ; his rooms must be lighted with as much brilliancy as the 
rooms in old times, at Versailles : he never thinks enough wood and wax- 
candles are burnt in his house. His guests must be surrounded with profu- 
sion, and served with unwearied attention. Enter his abode, and were you the 
most obscure of his visiters, the hundred valets in the ante-chamber would 
rise suddenly, as one man. 

In the numerous reunions of the Tuileries, when business prospers, when his 
ministry, at the longest computation, is safe for five or six weeks, the king is a 
happy man. He has a natural love for all superior men, of whatever kind ; he 
seeks them, he draws them to himself, he gives them good places by his side ; 
he is never at a loss ; his speech is easy, his memory prompt. He has seen and 
studied much, and better still, he has learned much ; he has been tried by good 
and bad fortune ; a prince of the blood, a soldier, an outlaw, an exile, a school- 
master, a king — he has been on a level with all these various conditions. The 
movement and the variety of his life, Louis Philippe carries in his thoughts and 
conversation. He has friends, true friends, in all parts of the world, in the 
United States, in Italy, in Germany, above all, in England, where he has re- 
cently received a large inheritance called the Stanfield Museum ; and he is the 
host of all these friendships. A politician, attentive to the least murmurs of 
men and parties, he understands with wonderful precision, what this man who 
enters the palace, with a smile on his lips, thought yesterday, what that one who 
leaves, will think to-morrow. Finally, he is accessible, prepossessing, and gra- 
cious, never forcing his politeness upon any one, but, on the contrary, waiting 
until he can be affable, without losing anything of his dignity ; he is never more 
at his ease than when surrounded by all these passions and rival ambitions : 
then he is truly a king. To calm one, to excite another, to restrain this one by 
the remembrance of the past ; to stimulate that one, in view of the future ; to 
extol youth to the young men, and age to the old ones, to defend at once both 
the empire and the restoration, to exalt Napoleon, to pity and protect King 
Charles X., and to reunite all these opposite sympathies round the revolution 
of July, of which he always speaks with an exalted gratitude — these are the 
happy inoments of the king. In his palace of the Tuileries, when the whole 
city is there, pressing and pushing, when his large saloons sparkle with a thou- 



LOUIS PHILIPPE AS A FATHER THE qUEEN. 59 

sand fires, when Parisian conversation shoots, and is lost, in the boundless fields 
of French wit, grace, and imagination, it is an interesting sight to see the king 
passing from one to the other, moving in all directions, among these groups so 
attentive to his words, persuading, convincing, laughing, praising, blaming, talk- 
ing, and even thinking aloud. You have then, and only then, the highest pos- 
sible idea of France, such as it is, in all its meridian glory ; the zenith of au- 
thority, of aristocracy, of fortune, of wit, and of art. 

Above all, this man, so surrounded with labor and dangers, is the father of a 
family. His peculiar province seems to be, to bring up, instruct, and enrich his 
children. He early understood that a large family, in our days, is, for princes, 
the most excellent, the least ruinous, and the most easily pardoned, of all lux- 
uries. Not long since, he had no less than five sons, the pride and support of 
his throne. They were all brought up, at college, among other children of their 
age ; they followed the same courses, contended for the same prizes, and of 
these prizes, so envied and so disputed, they have had their share, but not with- 
out great difficulty and hard study. All these children have been, for the king, 
a delightful subject of paternal diligence and zeal : he has followed them, step 
by step, in their studies ; he has directed them one after the other : these chil- 
dren have been his joy and his pride ; he has loved them, at the same time, with 
passion and prudence. Those who are dead, he has mourned in such a way as 
to draw tears from the most insensible. Amid these unexpected griefs, the 
death of his daughter, the princess Marie ; the death of his son, the Duke of 
Oi'leans, the prince-royal ; the courage of the king has not failed him — but how 
touching has he been in his teai's, how great in his grief ! 

By the side of the king, looking like the guardian angel of this royal family, 
is the queen, that modest, amiable, clever woman, who has contributed not a 
little to the popularity of her family. The queen, a daughter of kings, married 
the Duke of Orleans, when he was only a fugitive. At that time, the house of 
Bourbon had but little prospect of reascending the throne of France. It had 
fallen from too great a height, to hope to rise again from such a depth. The 
marriage of the Duke of Orleans and his wife was founded, then, much more 
upon mutual esteem and affection than upon interested motives. The Dutchess 
of Orleans loved her husband, at first, because he was unhappy, because he was 
poor, a wanderer, an exile, exposed even to the reproaches of those relations 
among whom he emigrated. She loved him, next, for the fortitude with which 
he supported his ill-fortune, for his patience, for the noble life which he led, in 
the enjoyment of domestic happiness. These two distinguished persons were 
admirably suited, to be always supporting each other, a little above their posi- 
tion, whatever that position might be. 

Once upon the throne, the Dutchess of Orleans acted and thought like a 
queen. She had been consulted by her husband in all Jhe important spec- 
ulations of their life, as landholders and capitalists ; she is equally consulted 
in the management of political affairs. She is queen, as she has been mother 
of a family, without ostentation ; on the contrary, though very laborious and 
devoted, she has taken care to conceal her labors. 

But alas ! what are we about ? Of what use is it to speak with so much 
pleasure, of the happiness of the royal family of France ? At the very moment 
that my pen rapidly traces these remembrances, something has occurred to in- 
terrupt this felicity. Twice has mourning spread through this house ! The 
Princess Marie of Wurtemberg is no longer an inhabitant of this world. She 
has carried with her to the tomb, all that great art and genius, which had made 
her so popular an artist. And now, suddenly resounds throughout Europe the 
mournful cry, " The Duke of Orleans is dead !" But we will speak of the 
prince-royal, as though he were still living. This is what we should have said 
of him before July 13, 1842. 



60 THE PRINCE-ROTAL — HIS PRIVATE CHARACTER. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

THE PRINCE-ROTAL. 

The prince on whose head rest so many hopes, and whose Hfe is reserved for 
so many difficult struggles, the prince-royal is a fine young man, with a tall 
good figure, of that style of English beauty which is so much admired ; he has 
the appearance of a well-educated man. The Duke of Orleans, the eldest of 
the royal family, has been brought up with almost unnecessary care ; and strange 
to say, what he is most reproached with is, the having attempted too many kinds 
of knowledge at once. The prince-royal has followed with zeal and scrupulous 
exactness, all the courses of the Parisian colleges; there has been nothing su- 
perficial in his classical studies. He reads Homer in the original ; he is a very 
good Latinist ; he has learned history, as a scholar ought to learn it, before 
studying it, as a prince ought to know it. His exact and judicious mind early 
led him to turn his attention to arithmetic, geometry, algebra, and similar sci- 
ences, every branch of which he readily embraced. He has studied chemistry 
under the first masters, and has no fear either of a furnace or an alembic. He 
speaks fluently several of the living languages ; he draws, with the greatest ease, 
the drollest little figures and the most humorous sketches, worthy of Cruik- 
shank. At the same time, he is a bold and elegant horseman ; understands the 
use of a foil, a fusee, or a sword ; manoeuvres an army like an old general ; and 
enters into ail the details of war, infantry, cavalry, sieges, and artillery ; he is no 
stranger to political affairs ; he often goes to the Chamber of Deputies, to the 
tribune reserved for the king's family, often to the Chamber of Peers, where he 
shares the labors of the committees ; you see that he must have much readi- 
ness and intelligence, to suffice, at one and the same time, for all these different 
pursuits. He is an excellent young man, full of kindness, whom you are always 
sure of finding in case of need ; who never forgot the slightest friendship he had 
formed, but who knows very well how to forget an injury ; he is obliging and 
polite, as the worthy son of his parents ; urged onward by a natural love for cour- 
age and greatness, he is modest, grave, retired in his habits of hfe, and has never 
given rise to any of those scandals, which are so easily pardoned in young men 
and princes ; full of respect and devotion for his father, he has taken his place 
as the natural protector of his brothers, who respect and obey him, although he 
would willingly dispense with their deference. He has always been the assidu- 
ous attendant upon his sisters, on whom he lavishes the most affectionate kind- 
ness ; he loves the life of a soldier from instinct, but without daring to yield 
himself to this passion for arms, lest he should pass for an imperial counterfeit ; 
in a word, I do not think it is possible to find more good sense, more science, 
more maturity of mind, without pedantry, in a prince of thirty years old. 

It is more difficult to accost the Duke of Orleans than the king himself; and 
even when with him, it is not every one who can discover all his concealed vir- 
tues. He neither gives himself up to you, nor does he try to surprise you. 
There is, in all his intercourse with those who approach him, so much apparent 
honesty, that the clever can not believe that there is so little art in it. Like a 
well-bred young man, he knows how to render to old men all the respect due to 
age. He speaks deferentially of the old generals of the empire, the glorious 
remnant of so many victories. He has a great esteem for old politicians, and 
used to accost M. de Talleyrand, that Nestor of the European diplomacy, with 
so much respect, that he suffered himself to be moved by the good manners of 
this young man. At the same time, youth has great charms for him. He un- 
derstands that the present is his father's ; and that if anything belongs to him, it 
is the future. Thus he loves, and seeks from preference every promising per- 
son and thing ; he wishes for the spring of the year, he is the prince of youth. 

Those who knew that he was educated in the midst of a turbulent college, by 
numerous masters, and among familiar schoolfellows, never would have sus- 



AS A SOLDIER — LOVE FOR ANTIQUITIES — KING AND THE PRINCE. 61 

pected that the Duke of Orleans was so skilful, in commanding and in making 
himself obeyed ; this is, nevertheless, one of the great talents of the prince. 
He has a strong decided will, gives positive orders, and has a great facility in 
swaying the minds of men : an excellent quality in a prince who wishes to 
accomplish great things ! He has already, several times, sustained the fire 
of the enemy with much courage. At the siege of Antwerp he was in the 
trenches, and the shells passed very near his head. He was nearly killed in 
Africa, by a ball which touched him, and by several other blows from Arabian 
fusees through which he passed, without disquieting himself as to what might 
happen. On one occasion, when stopping with two others at a spring, to quench 
their burning Ihirst, they were surrounded by a band of Arabs, and closely pur- 
sued, but soon boldly made their way through the horde. If the Arabs had 
known, however, that it was the son of the French king who was in their power, 
most certainly they would not have suffered so goodly a prey to have escaped 
them so easily. In the same campaign, he was brought to the verge of the 
grave by the fever, the fatigue, and the privations of every kind, which he en- 
dured ; but the approach of death drew from him no repinings. On his return, 
his father was astonished to see him with a volume written entirely by his own 
hand, in the tent ; in which he gives an account of the expedition, in the same 
style as the Commentaries. This account has been read by some of the king's 
friends, and they consider it written in a clear, natural, penetrating style, and 
that, without any other person's assuming the office of an historian, it related 
all that is necessary to be told. 

The great passion of the Duke of Orleans, if he has a passion, is the modern 
one, which has seized the French, for old furniture, old remnants, and old relics 
of past ages. I could here recount to you, — in the frivolous part of this book, 
which will have its frivolous part, depend upon it, — the history of this singular 
passion, which agitates millions, and at the head of which marches one of the 
most eager and most skilful antiquarians, the Duke of Orleans. He has arranged 
with much luxury and taste, the pavilion which the Dutchess de Berri formerly 
inhabited, in the Tuileries. He has profited by the contempt which the king 
exhibits, for these brilliant toys, by having the garde meuble of the crown, and 
the royal castles well searched, and worm-eaten woods, broken cornices, faded 
gildings, laces in holes, discolored tapestry, and relics of the ages which are no 
more, are brought to him, whenever they can be found. He, however, with an 
indefatigable perseverance, repairs, restores, and regilds, all these old things, 
and when they have attained the desired brilliancy, he gives them an honorable 
place in his palace, and is enraptured before these porcelains, bronzes, and 
marbles, which have, with so much trouble sui-vived a whole revolution. If the 
king delights in stone, plaster, masons, and their retinue of noise and dust, just 
as eager is the Duke of Orleans for antiquities, curiosities, old pitchers, polished 
iron, and china. They both restore ; the father, palaces, — the son, moveables. 
The king smiles as he sees this antiquarian propensity ; — the Duke of Orleans, 
who never laughs at his father, can not understand the paternal tasie for scaffold- 
ings and house-painters. They are no less divided, in their manner of judging 
arts and artists. The king loves nothing in the aits, but the Italian school, 
Italian paintings, and Italian architecture, — the severe works of the beautiful 
school of the seventeenth century, — he is just formed for the noble and pure 
taste of Louis XIV., — Versailles appears to him the chef-d'oeuvre of chefs- 
d'oeuvre, — and, except the regent and the French revolution, he sees nothing 
before, or after, the reign of LOuis the Great. The Duke of Orleans, on the 
contrary, recognises and admires sincerely, every age of his country's history; 
but with respect to art, he prefers Francis I. to Louis XIV., and I am not quite 
sure, whether to Francis I. he does not prefer Charlemagne. The Gothic ap- 
pears to him the most beautiful of all the arts, and he would give ten palaces 
such as that of Versailles, for the powerful cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris. 
In this, the father and son are equally exclusive : both have made their choice 
among cotemporary artists, but each according to his idea of the beautiful. The 
king has adopted for his painter, M. Horace Vemet, the beautiful colorist, the 



62 THE DUKE OF ORLEANS AT COLLEGE THE DUKE AT ANTWERP. 

ready improvisator; the Duke of Orleans has given all his sympathies to an 
admirable disciple of Raphael's, M. Ingres, who has always been a great draughts- 
man. Such contrasts might be found for ever, between the king and his son, if 
it was our business here to draw a parallel. 

But alas ! what is the use of this easy parallel ? We need no parallel, no 
historical portrait ; the Duke of Orleans claims now, only our homage and our 
tears. Since the prince-royal is dead, it seems to me, that we oiight to granf 
more complete praise to the noble prince, whom all Europe has wept. To write 
the history of the prince-royal, would be to write the history of Paris, for the 
last twelve years. The Duke of Orleans represented the Parisian youth better 
than any other young man of his age. From all the pages which have been 
written upon him, during the month of July, I gather the following, as the 
sincere expression of a unanimous regret. A writer cotemporary with the Duke 
of Orleans spe;ilcs thus : — 

" He was the fellow-student of many among us. In the college wrestlings, his 
presence and his name were found to be a great encouragement, an^ more than 
one, has been excited to perseverance, by beholding the grandson of so many 
kings, carrying so lightly the heavy burden of study. From only seeing him at 
first, lively, animated, happy, simple in his mode of life, full of grace, artlessness, 
and intelligence, his companions began to love the young prince ; neither he, 
nor they, could foresee the great destiny which was before him. He was, like 
all of us, the subject of King Charles X., and he was his first subject, and there- 
fore exposed to all the suspicious of ill-established royalties. He left the college, 
and became a soldier; his fellow-students dispersed here and there, to gain 
their livelihood, each in his own way. To-day the companions of a prince of 
the blood royal, and sometimes his happy rivals, to-morrow exposed to all the 
chances of the world ; — such is the course of events in constitutional kingdoms." 

On one of the three days of 1830, in the midst of torn-up pavements, wrathful 
spirits, and exasperated minds, suddenly appeared the young Duke of Chartres, 
at the head of a regiment preceded by the tricolored flag. When the people 
heard the name of this new-comer, into the battle of July, and that he had been 
the first to plant the triumphant colors, they began to cry vivat ! In the streets, 
the conquerors of the day, recognised their old fellow-student, and made room 
for him by their side ; thus they went all together, to the Palais Royal, where 
the Duke of Orleans received his eldest son, as calmly, as though he had returned 
loaded with college honors. Ah, those college days were happy days ! Sweet 
and peaceful crowns, which could honestly be applauded, without groans and 
without tears ! At this hour, the laurels gained by her son, form one of the 
most precious ornaments, of the queen's house at Neuilly I 

Thus the prince-royal became suddenly, the prince of the French youth. He 
was our prince even before his noble father became the king of the French. 
The prince-royal knew all the name of la jeune France, just as Julius Caesar 
knew the names of all the soldiers in his army. He was well acquainted with 
its vows, and its hopes, its fears, and its ambitions; the strictest friendship united 
him with the young intelligences of the nineteenth century ; like them, he was 
innocent of all past crimes, of all the voluntary slavery, of all the acts of cowardice, 
which had been accomplished; in his quick hopeful sight, everything shone 
like the lightning shot from heaven. Do you remember what he was in 1830 ? 
What fire ! what courage ! How his great mind showed itself on every side ! 
How calmly and tranquilly, he looked at the new honors of his house ! How his 
father was always his father, and not the king ! Never was the prince-royal more 
amiable or more excellent, than in those first days of a royalty which saved 
France ; and each might have said of him, in the language of Virgil, with which 
he was so familiar, Tu Marcellus eris ! 
. Very soon there came a war, or at least a citadel to take. The citadel was 
strong and bravely defended : now, the prince was happy. He was one of the 
first to arrive under the walls of Antwerp, he opened the trenches, he waited for 
the bullets and shells, he learned under a good master, the difficult trade of war; 
at the same time, he made himself beloved by the soldiers, for his courage, his 
presence of mind, his art of saying everything, of encouraging, blaming, reward- 



VISITI?fG THE HOSPITALS. DEATH OF THE DUKE OP ORLEANS. 63 

ing, consolting, and comforting. Under the walls of Antwerp, he showed himself 
to be at once a bold and modest soldier. Marshal Gerard, in his admirable 
despatches, hardly named the prince-royal, and it caused much joy to the Duke 
of Orleans, that he was not more praised, than if he had been a simple soldier in 
the army, or if he had been Marshal Gerard himself. Thus his first military 
beginnings were serious ; a citadel to overthrow, a revolution to support, a new 
throne to raise, and all these labors at the very gates of France, without taking 
any part in the struggles of parties, which were already murmuring in the dis- 
tance. 

But if he has had his days of glory, he has also had his share in the days of 
misery. When the city of Lyons rose, as if it had been a capital city, when it 
was necessary to defend himself in these revolted walls, when there was civil war 
in the midst of that France which so much needed concord, the prince-royal 
was sent there by his father, that he might watch closely, how the terrible anger 
of the people rises, and that he might early learn, how it is calmed by means of 
firmness and compassion. He was humane, charitable, serious, patient, modest, 
moderate ; he already understood all his duties, which were immense ; he re- 
turned to Paris, peace re-established, order secured, and even the conquered 
blessing him. A difficult and painful victory, but he accepted all victories, and 
even that. This kind of victory over a tumultuous population was in the desti- 
ny of his father and himself ! 

At the time of the cholera — when the hospitals were encumbered with the 
sick, when the passer-by dropped in the street, struck with a sudden, inexpli- 
cable death ; when the physicians fell by the beds of the infected — the first 
who dared run to these hospitals of despair, was the prince-royal. He touched 
the sick with his own hands, he had all kinds of consolation and hope for them; 
thus he showed himself on a level with his fortune. Morituri te salutant ; those 
who are dying salute you from the bottom of their souls, monseigneur. Death, 
which respected him in these melancholy days of plague and misery, when he 
was but a very young man, when the paternal hopes for him were scarcely rais- 
ed, why was it that it took him thus suddenly, when married to the noblest daugh- 
ter of G^'many, the father of a family, with so many brilliant qualities of a cap- 
tain and statesman, at the very moment when France had learned to look upon 
him, as her future king. 

Africa, subdued at last by the French, will always remember the prince-royal 
as a conqueror. On this barbarous spot, he gave himself up entirely to the 
courage which urged him on, the military instinct which he possessed, the noble 
chances which he loved, the chances of a war in which all paid personally, a war 
full of dangers, and in which each risked his head. 

By him the Portes-de-Fer were crossed. The army of Africa alone can tell 
how many of the virtues of great captains, the prince -royal possessed. He had 
won all hearts, by the vivacity and energy of a natural eloquence, which sug- 
gested to him at the right moment, the best thing to say. As for danger, he 
sought it like a man who has not much time to give, to the lively joys of gun- 
shots, surprises, sieges, and all the excitement of battle. More than once, he 
was nearly killed, upon this desolate earth. Cruel death ! But France would 
have preferred even this, could she have foreseen that her beloved prince, would 
fall within two steps of the paternal mansion, and that his father and mother in 
despair, and all those young men who so loved their brother, would only have 
an insensible body to remove, from the dust of this avenue of Revolt, through 
which the body of King Louis XV. passed, when it was carried in such haste, 
and with so much fear to the tombs of St. Denis. But as Louis XV". passed, 
the people clapped their hands in token of joy, and hailed the aurora of a new 
reign, which was about to deliver them, from the dominion of a tyrant worn out 
by luxury and vice. On the contrary, if we now cross the avenue of Revolt, 
we shall behold silence, grief, alarm, remembrances of the past — the workmen 
removing the grocer's shop by the queen's orders, as carefully as though it be- 
longed to the dead body of her son Melancholy details ! but at least 

they prove, that there are public sorrows, unanimous griefs, against which even 
French gayety can not prevail. 



64 THE PRINCESS MARIE. 

CHAPTER XVTT. 

THE PRINCESS MARIE. 

To you, who are distracted from the business of the world, and who occupy 
yourselves exclusively with poetry and art, there is no occasion to describe the 
Princess Marie. In the high position in which Heaven had placed her, she re- 
mained the most simple, natural, and honest of artists. You only can tell all 
the worth of this young mind, so skilful in understanding everything, all the ge- 
nius concealed under a royal name, all the energy of that white hand before 
which the proudest bowed, and which moi'e than once, even in the evening re- 
ceptions, still bore the rude and glorious mark of the sculptor's chisel. 

For you early learned to acknowledge, in this young girl, your rival, your 
equal, your superior. In this world of power which she inhabited, few knew all 
her value. She was never at ease, except in that other kingdom, of the arts, 
for which she was born. There she lived, there she reigned, there she was elo- 
quent, there she could say, as she struck her foot, " The ground on which I 
tread is my own." But when she remembered, that she inhabited the Tuileries, 
that she was the daughter of the busiest king in Europe, that her brothers were 
princes of the blood, and that she herself must follow the trade of a princess, 
smile on all, accept as authorities these miserable nullities, listen to the vain talk 
of idle courtiers, hold out her hand to bewildered citizens in the saloon of the 
marshals — then her pure, white forehead was dimmed by a slight cloud ; then 
the look, just now proudly turned toward the free sky, was sadly bent upon the 
ground ; her eloquent thoughts were arrested, her smiling lip assumed an ex- 
pression of involuntary contempt. The courtiers, or if you prefer it, those who 
are called courtiers, said that the Princess Marie was proud. Proud of what ? 
Alas ! she had the noble pride of preoccupied thoughts, the ambition of great 
minds. But these things are beyond the comprehension of the vulgar. No, 
she was not proud to the courtiers, but she was annoyed with them. And will 
you tell me what they could say to her ? She spoke a language unknown in 
the strange world of the Tuileries. 

This young woman, who will always be regretted, had all the feelings neces- 
sary to form a great artist ; above all, she had the feeling of independence ; she 
had a decided preference for familiar conversation, study, silence, obscurity. In 
the palace which she inhabited, she had made for herself a profoimd retreat, 
which no one would have discovered, if the very entrance to this distant apart- 
ment, had not revealed a higher taste than the rest of the chateau. Like a 
great artist as she was, the princess had fitted up for her own use, a handsome 
atelier, which might have been taken for the atelier of some unknown Michael 
Angelo, so skilfully had she concealed the heavy masonry, of this unnatural pal- 
ace of Philibert Delorme. There, provided they left her in peace, and did not 
send for her to do honor to the strange politicians who thought to govern France, 
the princess was happy. There she laid aside all restraint and all inconvenient 
ornaments ; she realized in the clay before her, her brilliant dreams. When she 
was thus engaged in imparting to clay, life, motion, and thought, you might 
sound drums and clarions under her windows, you might defile before the pal- 
ace of her father, armed squadrons, you might fill it with peers of France, dep- 
uties, ministers, and representatives of all the European kings — the royal sculp- 
toress Would not bestow one thought upon you. 

Her life was thus passed in the laborious and innocent contemplation of the 
fine arts. To the praise of the great talent which France has lost, it must be 
said that no one in the country, not even the most illustrious, has brought more 
intelligence and more perseverance to these rude studies of the fine arts, with- 
out which the greatest abilities are almost always thrown away. She had silent- 
ly dared all the difficulties of her art, she had felt all its thorns one by one, she 
had plunged her hand, and that a firm one, into this earth, which must be 



THE princess's love FOR NOVELTY M. EDGAR QUINET. 65 

thoroughly kneaded if you would do anything with it. She did not even spare 
her self-love some severe lessons, and when she had attained her place among 
the masters, she would take pleasure in relating how, more than once, she had 
sent anonymous works to the Exposition at the Louvre, and how the public had 
coldly passed before these first attempts, and not only the public, who never flat- 
ter, but the courtiers who always flatter. She would tell also the just severity 
of the criticisms upon her, for unlike the greater part of her competitors, who 
incessantly attack criticism, the Princess Marie paid deference to it, saying that 
truth was not so painful to hear as might be supposed. And with how much 
enjoyment would she repeat, that at one of these Expositions to which she had 
sent an anonymous painting, much valued by her, when she passed before the 
despised work, and stopped complacently to look at it, a flatterer who accompa- 
nied her said, "Ah princess, you who understand such matters, how can you stop 
before such baboons ?" 

It was by degrees, then, without any other protection than her talent, any 
other recommendation than her genius, that she reached that popularity, which 
is the sweetest of all rewards; she acquired renown as it ought to be acquired, 
by her works, and without any extraneous recommendation. By her advanced 
mind, by her somewhat German taste, by the poetical instincts which so charac- 
terized her life, the princess Marie was a disciple of that young school which 
formed part of the school of David. She had early learned that the pitiful 
imitation which attaches itself to costume and armor, was a miserable thing, 
quite unworthy of any real talent ; she understood all the compass of those 
great names Michael Angelo and Dante ; for in her imagination she never sepa- 
rated the poet from the artist, thought from form, or the inspirator from the in- 
spiration. She was devoted to all that was young and new ; she preferred inspi- 
ration, and even wandering inspiration, to anything formal ; every new attempt 
vas sure to please her ; she was the first to examine it, and by no means the last 

praise it. Thus she saluted with transport young poets, and young artists, 
ind there was some merit in this, for she was the daughter of a king, who had 
ilso his literary system, and who, when he had time, occupied himself with art 
■ind poetry ; and more than once I fancy there must have been between the fa- 
ther and his beloved daughter, a long dispute ; the former defending his idea like 

1 man who was acquainted with revolutions, and who felt that revolutions de- 
pend upon each other, the latter proclaiming progress to be the most invincible 
necessity of mind, and dreading nothing in the arts but the statu quo ; the one 
satisfied with art as it was, the other thinking only of what was to come. 

Thus this beautiful noble mind, now immortalized, had made herself a^" ani- 
mated, energetic, and benevolent mediator between the throne and the young 
poetical school ; she taught her father the names of the new-comers into the 
arena; she accustomed his rebellious ear to new verses, new prose, the modern 
drama ; she showed, with the proofs in her hand, that the France which has 
produced Lamartine and Eugene Delacroix, M. de Lamennais, yes, M. de 
Lamennais himself, and Madame George Sand (for she even spoke to the king 
of Madame Sand), was not without honor as respects literature and the arts. 
And you will imagine that the father, proud of his daughter and his kingdom, 
would easily suffer himself to be convinced by the former in favor of the latter. 
Nevertheless, who but the princess Marie, would hare dared thus to sustain the 
poetry, the literature, and the fine arts of this century, compared with the French 
eighteenth century, so dear on so many accountiJ, to the men of 1789 ? Of 
this valuable encouragement, given from so great a height to the contemporarj' 
school, by the princess Marie, I shall give but one instance, which is, however, 
exceedingly honorable and touching. You are doubtless acquainted with the 
books of Edgar Quinet, that German, who, without exactly knowing how, 
writes some of the most beautiful language of the time. This man is a young 
enthusiastic dreamer, full of passion without aim, and ill-regulated enthusiasm ; 
he walks alone, in the narrow path he has marked out for himself, between Her- 
der and Klopstock ; at certain periods of his life he appears with a poem in his 
hand ; then he retires to return after a long interval. One day he happened to 

5 



66 M. EDGAR QITINET'S AHASUERUS — A ROTAL PRESENT. 

be at the Chateau des Tuileries; he had come to visit one of the queen's maids 
of honor, and was on this occasion more than usually melancholy. He had 
just produced a philosophical epopee, that strange poem of Prometheus, en- 
larged and developed in such a way as to form the history of humanity, for in 
these days humanity does not read histories, from Prometheus to the fall of an 
angel. Suddenly, as Edgar Quinet was telling the maid of honor his agonies and 
his martyrdom, saying that he also had a vulture at his heart, the poetical vulture, 
more furious and more inexorable than the other, a young person entered, so 
simple, so fair, so candid, so naturally elegant, that our poet ought immediately 
to have recognised her. But we must pardon M. Edgar Quinet ; he was so ab- 
sorbed in his grief that he could see nothing. However the new-comer took 
pity on his sufferings, and began to talk to the poet of his new book with much 
elegance and feeling, and told him — what is always said of poems which do not 
succeed, but which she nevertheless believed — that it was an excellent work, 
perhaps the best the author had ever written, and she even knew by heart several 
of the rustic verses, extemporised, as bards extemporised before the mead. 

Imagine the delight of our poet at hearing her thus speak! She seem- 
led like an apparition in white from the other side of the Rhine. Seeing that 
her conversation pleased him, she suffered the healing balm to fall drop by drop 
upon the wounded heart. By degrees she proceeded, and she was quite right, 
from the poem in verse to the poem in prose ; she passed from Prometheus to 
the touching legend of Ahasuerus, that masterpiece of poetical legends. " Stay," 
said she to Quinet, " follow me, and you will see whether I love this poem." 
Immediately the two ladies arose, and the poet followed them with the same 
melancholy aspect as though he had been following the white lady of Avenal ; 
and thus they entered the Gothic atelier, filled with incomplete drawings and un- 
finished sketches. The Bible, Homer, and Dante, were her only companions 
in this cell. And imagine the joy of the poet when four admirable bas-reliefs, 
taken from his poem, were pointed to out him ! Yes, his heroes themselves, in 
the very attitude and exhibiting the very passions which his poetry had given 
them ! Here, then, is the giant giving himself up to revelling at the instant ot 
his return, while at the gate of his tower knocks old Ocean most imperatively — 
the king offers to his importunate guest his purple mantle, but Ocean prefers 
his mantle of froth. Farther on Christ comes into the world, and the wise men, 
led by the star, go to the stable at Bethlehem, while on their route the red- 
breasts sing their morning song. Then appears the wandering Jew, he who has 
neither seat to sit down upon, nor fountain to quench his thirst ; as he passes, 
Babylon and Thebes take a stone from their ruins to throw at him. Following 
him come Attila and the barbarians, those other wanderers, who chasten Rome 
and revenue the world. On the shores of the Rhine the watcher sings under 
the tower of King Dagobert. In a little cabin old Mabb tonnents young Ra- 
chael; Rachael personifies vengeance, Mabb hesitation. And thus this history 
is unfolded ihroagh the labors and the lamentations of men ; and thus you ar- 
rive at Christian Rome, when the eternal city is finished and filled with living 
souls. Then only does Christ pardon Ahasuerus, and grant him that repose of 
an eternity which he so much needs. 

To describe to you al\ the delight of the poet, when he saw his ideas thus 
understood, thus reproduced — to tell you all his emotion when he saw, one after 
the other, his dreams pass thus before him, in their natural and mystic attitudes 
— would be quite irapossible. And then what happiness to trace his own po- 
ems — to touch, with the finger and the look, the wandering works of his 
imagination — to see them thus clothed in the mantle spun for them with the 
gold and silken thread of im?igination — to say to himself, " There they are 
walking !" and to see them, in f&ct, acting and thinking, was delightful ! — such 
was the admiration of the poet. But what were his feelings when the young 
artist said to him, with her sweet vibrating voice, " This is y.our work, take it 
with you ;" and when he could read, at the bottom of these exquisite bas-reliefs, 
the royal ndime Marie d^ Orleans? 

In point of royal rewards, I do not think there is a greater than this to be 



JOAN OF ARC ON HORSEBACK AT VERSAILLES. 67 

found in the history of the arts. We have heard of a great prince who held 
the ladder for Albert Durer ;'of a powerful monarch who picked up the pencils 
of Titian ; we know that the sister of a king of France kissed the lips of Alain 
Charlier while he slept ; but this great surprise given to a poet, the reproduction 
of his poem, this unhoped-for and consolatory gift, the infinite grace of the 
young girl the princess, the great artist — this is certainly a thing v/hich can not 
be too much admired. 

If you remember at what age the Princess Marie died — if you recollect that 
she shared ail the agonies and all the anxieties of this new throne so cruelly tried 
— you will be confounded with the number and the variety of her labors. After 
having drawn for some time under the direction of a skilful master whom she 
had herself chosen, she began to paint : to her the French are indebted for sev- 
eral of the beautiful church-windows executed at Sevres, and among others the 
windows of the chapel at Fontainebleau, which you would suppose to have been 
stolen from some Italian dome in the sixteenth century. But her greatest love 
was for sculpture — she had divined all its secrets, she modelled with unequalled 
firmness ; under her fingers, the obedient clay took every form. She understood 
thoroughly the science of details, and knew exactly how the queen and her page 
were dressed, how the knight and the squire were armed. In compliance with 
her will, the clay thus modelled became armor or velvet, sword or lace. Her 
first attempt in this style was the statue of Joan of Arc on horseback. The 
horse is a very fine Norman one, calmly and vigorously placed ; the young war- 
rior, armed cap-a-pie, holds in her hand the teiTible sword, which she has just 
used for the first time. There is here an exquisite idea, which would not 
have occurred to any sculptor of our time — it could only enter a young mind 
filled with the softest feelings : when Joan of Arc, leaning from her saddle, has 
cut off the head of the first Englishman who presents himself, suddenly the 
warrior disappears, the young shepherdess is seen under her cuiras ; the terri- 
ble sword nearly falls from the trembling hand ; astonishment, mingled with 
alarm, is seen on her lovely countenance. It is not she who has killed the man, 
it is her sword. I know nothing more animated or more ingenious than this 
little group, which is concealed in one of the minor apartments of the Chateau, 
des Tuileries. 

She adopted Joan of Arc, then, as her hero. When she played as a young child 
upon the green turf of that Chateau d'Eu, whijh has received her mortal re- 
mains, she might have seen, among the portraits of her family, Joan of Arc her- 
self, shut up for a moment in the Chateau d'Eu, when the English took her to 
the city of Rouen, where they burnt her. She early learned this f ital and glo- 
rious history, and acquired a strong love for the young heroine, whose misfor- 
tunes equalled her courage. Thus when the king her father undertook to raise 
from its ruins the palace of Versailles, which had been the tomb of a monarchy, 
after having been its most illustrious theatre, the Princess Marie wished to as- 
sist. In these galleries, consecrated to French virtue, she has chosen her place 
and her heroine. This statue of Joan of Arc has already made the tour of the 
world. 

The maid is standing in an easy, natural posture ; she is simply dressed, and 
under her warrior's garb you may even detect that of the shepherdess ; her 
beautifully pensive, oval head, is bent under her long hair; her two hands 
are exquisite — so delicate, and yet strong — there seem to be iron muscles in these 
small, slim finders ! she holds her sword so boldly and so positively. But its 
point is turned toward the ground I The heroine is evidently recollecting her- 
self — she is expecting the enemy — she is waiting for the oriflamme to be un- 
furled. It is impossible to describe the powerful effect of this simple marble in 
the midst of so many furious and declamatory ones I 

But she is dead ! Far from her beloved country, far from her father, her 
jnother, her brothers, and her sisters ! Pisa will long remember the great artist 
who died within her walls ; the old dome will recall that pale and beautiful crea- 
ture, kneeling on the cold marble ; the leaning tower will weep over her ; the 
Campo Saato, motionless, wiU be moved with pity ; all the centuries, interred 



68 DEATH OF THE PRINCESS MARIE. 

there, will be melted with this sad loss. And doubtless if France had not 
claimed the ilhistrious body, the Countess Beatrice would have risen from the 
borrowed urn, which she had occupied for three centuries, to make room for the 
granddaughter of Andrew of Pisa, of Michael Angelo, and of Orcagna. 

Had not pitiless death spoilt all, she would have bequeathed to France a 
statue of Bayard. You can not say that she did not know how to choose her 
heroes ! 

But she is dead ! She has fallen in all the strength — not of her age, for she 
had hardly begun life — but in all the strength of her talents. It seemed as 
though all her happiness was in France, and that every other sky, even that of 
Italy, was fatal to her. She had scarcely followed her young husband into Ger- 
many, that Germany so charmed and delighted to hear its language so well 
spoken, to see its poets so well understood, before she was driven from her 
house by fire ; and in this fire, what was it she lamented ? She wept her lost 
albums, beautiful drawings brought from France, as a remembrance of her ab- 
sent country ; she wept her favorite books, which she knew by heart ; she re- 
gretted the letters of her much-loved family. It was the first time in such a fire 
that no mention was made of pearls, or diamonds, or ornaments. And therefore 
the French artists were much more aifected at the news, than if a crown had 
been left among the rubbish ; and with an honorable eagerness, they set them- 
selves to make a new album for the noble fellow-student who understood them 
so well. 

As she felt ill, and suffered more than she ever owned, she returned to Paris, 
where some happy days yet awaited her. She again saw all those whom she 
loved ; again she felt around her that active motion of mind so necessary to her ; 
once more she assisted at the daily production of those ideas which raise, en- 
lighten, agitate, and disturb Europe ; again she found her favorite artists, and I 
leave you to guess with what a charming smile she recognised them all. Once 
more she took the road to her atelier, and saw, not without tears, the works she 
had commenced : how many times did her anxious mother take from her hands 
the sculptor's chisel ! for, without any pity for herself, the young princess still 
moulded the damp clay with her poor emaciated hands. She wished also to 
visit the Chateau de Fontainebleau, which she loved, and in which she sought 
less the kings who had inhabited it, than the artists who had left their names in 
and upon the walls ; once more she would ride on horseback through this beau- 
tiful forest, and when on horseback, you know how unwiUing she was ever to 
dismount. Poor woman ! who that saw her still so happy, taking such an ami- 
able interest in those who were dear to her, would have supposed that she wa& 
about to die ? 



THE OPERA THE SINGERS. 69 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE OPERA. 

But I forget that I did not come to Paris to penetrate into the mysteries of 
politics. Others vvilJ tell you what is passing in the palaces of kings ; my object 
is to instruct you in the manners, the elegancies, the comely joys of the great 
Parisian city. Nor must I forget the good and faithful companions of my jour- 
ney, the painter who draws, and the engraver who reproduces the work of the 
artist; let us try, then, all three of us, to dive into some of the mysteries of this 
■immense capital of taste, art, form, mind, and good sense. There is one place 
in Paris, into which, when evening comes, the crowd pours itself — I mean the 
beautiful and well-dressed crowd, the world of the happy and the rich, the idle 
world, which does not know how to kill life, and whom the evening surprises, 
like an unforeseen accident. This rendezvous of the Parisian fashionables, this 
resort of every evening, is the opera, the Italian theatre. Let us go there im- 
mediately. It is a great monument, to which nothing is wanting but a front ; it 
is a theatre lost among three or four passages, which surround it with all kinds 
of merchandise of great display and little worth. The opera-house is immense; 
gold and light, those two indispensable foundations of all public fetes, dazzle and 
sparkle on every side. Hardly have they arrived in this rich enclosure, before 
the first care of the spectatresses is, to take the position which will best display 
their beauty. Each one exhibits what she has — her arm, her hand, her white 
shoulder— and while the women show themselves, and the men look at them, 
suddenly rises, from the midst of a formidable orchestra, one of those pieces of 
music which I need not describe to you, for, once adopted in France, they make 
the tour of all Europe, as if it were only a new hat or a new dress. Indeed, you 
know the names of these musical works, some of which are masterpieces: Robert 
le Diable, an opera which has silenced Rossini, and reduced him to the necessity 
of writing nothing but romances for churches ; La Juive ; La Muctte ; Guil- 
laume Tell, the opera which caused so much grief to its master, and under which 
fell Nourrit, the greatest singer France could boast : and occasionally, from time 
to time, but rarely — for anything truly admirable soon tires these frivolous 
Athenians — you see reappearing, in all the passionate rapture of their eternal 
youth, the Don Juan of Mozart, or the Freischutz of Weber. Thus the opera 
confines itself almost entirely to five or six pieces of the ancients and moderns, 
and certainly the execution of these wonders of art is sufficient — and often more 
than sufficient — for all these voices united, and all these various talents. We 
must not forget, however, that our sole object in coming here, is not to listen to 
Madame Dorus, who sings with so sweet and airy a voice, or even the clever 
Duprez, whose voice nevertheless often belies his strength and his courage ; and 
less still to see all these debutants who pass and repass, without ever stopping — 
stars of a day, throwing their brilliant phosphorus from these musical heights, 
that they may acquire the right, for some future time, of illuminating the prov- 
ince. You may love singing and the musical drama, and magical conjurations, 
,and the movements of triumphant armies, as much as you will ; for it is the 
custom in the modern opera, to show some kind of movement, a whole army 
passing in review ; but for the stranger who spends but a kw days in Paris, there 
is an object of interest, a hundred times greater than chanted dramas ; there are 
other heroes besides the singers and songstresses ; the great interest is the dance ; 
it is those who compose the ballet, not the dansciirs, who are hardly looked at, 
who jump in the most awkward way, and throw themselves about most sadly in 
their corners ; but the danseuses, the airy, flying group, that nameless thing, 
which plays so conspicuous a part in the romances of every country. To see 
from a distance, this flying squadron in gauze dresses, and as naked as they can 
be, you ask yourself, if this is really a pubhc institution, and if these naked arms 
and legs, these unveiled bosoms and shoulders, are not an optical delusion ? 



70 THE GREEN-ROOM OF THE OPERA THE DANSEUSES. 

Then you are seized with an abominable wish, to have a nearer view of the 
gauze, the silk, the satin shoes, the artificial flowers, the long hair, the endless 
smiles ; but this is not so easy ; it is not every one who can enter the dreaded 
sanctuary. The entrance is defended, not by a rose, as might be imagined, but 
by a horrible thorn under the appearance of a vulgar porter. Those only are 
welcome to knock at this door, who belong either to diplomacy, the press, or 
finance, the three great powers of this century; to be admitted, it is necessary to 
be the bearer (what almost rural innocence ) ! of an ivory couuter, covered with 
allegorical emblems, crooks, shepherds, bagpipes, sheep. Florian could not 
have done better. You ascend a dirty staircase, you pass through a greasy 
door, and find yourself tete-a-tete with an old bald figurant, or worse still, with 
a fantastically-harnessed horse. After so much labor, you think you have at- 
tained your object, and you promise yourself to hold your heart with both 
hands ; useless trouble, you have many other dangers yet to encounter. First 
you must cross the theatre, and this is a most perilous journey ; for abysses 
yawn at your feet, and over your head are suspended — ready to fall — seas, whole 
cities, edifices of marble and gold ; you must go quickly, and yet softly ; the 
machinist is there, scolding his people, and cursing you from the bottom of his 
heart. At last, here you are in the green-room of the opera : you have only to 
descend five or six steps — enter then. This green-room, which still bears the 
rich remains of former painting and gilding, was once the saloon of the Duke de 
Choiseul ; it has seen more serious magnificence, before becoming the asylum 
of these choregraphical splendors. On entering, your first care must be to un- 
cover yourself, and to keep your hat in your hand, for by an ingenious fiction, 
once in the green-room, you are in the house of the king, not the constitutional 
king of the French, but better still, in that of his majesty Louis XV., a king 
who, of all his dynasty, has presei-ved nothing but the etiquette with which he 
pensioned the green-room ; thus any ill-bred Frenchman has a right, not to sa- 
lute his majesty Louis Philippe as he passes, and to refuse the queen a bow, but 
no one may keep on his hat before these opera ladies, who however will take 
care not to acknowledge your civility. They will scarcely bestow a side glance 
upon the stranger who presents himself in the comic kingdom ; you, however, 
who are wise, when you see these ladies so occupied with their jetes hattus, will 
forget your intended conquests, and indeed you are quite right, for all of them — 
the ugliest and the most beautiful, she for whom the public waits to throw at 
her feet its deUght and its homage, and she whose name it will never know — are 
fully engaged, without asking who you are. At this moment, they belong to the 
public, he is their only master, they think of no one but him, they would give 
all their love, past, present, and to come, for a round of applause, or even less 
than that, for a favorable murmur; so that if, in the green-room, you fancy 
yourself in the presence of simple anacreonic divinities, you are in great error ; 
you are in the presence of women who sing or who dance. However your 
choice is soon made, you return to what you were a short time since, an 
attentive spectator, but a spectator in the first boxes ; and now your amuse- 
ment is, to recognise them one after another; the elegant Fanny Ellsler, in her 
Spanish costume, half silk, half lace, without speaking of the brown skin which 
is seen through this light dress ; Pauline Leroux calm and pensive ; Carlotta 
Grisi light and active ; the two noblets ; the beautiful Dumilatre ; with the 
subalterns, who are not the least pretty ; and around these stars, the wandering 
satellites ; this one obtains a smile, that one a look, another is acknowledged 
aloud as a conqueror — but silence ! The dance is called for, the public waits 
and is impatient ; at this signal, these birds with brilliant i)lumage fly off", utter- 
ing a little cry of joy ; they fly light as air, and in this saloon, recently so full, 
nothing remains, unless it is a flower fallen from the figure, a ringlet unfastened 
from the long hair, a pinion which has broken off", all sorts of appointments, jokes, 
love-pledges, and nothings ; but they, the sylphids, what are they now doing 1 
They accompany the sylphs into the air, they repose in the old palace of the 
sleeping beauty in the wood, they swim into the azure grottoes of the daughter 
of the JDanube ; they have introduced revolt into the seraglio of the grand seig- 



PARISIAN AMUSEMENT THE NEWSPAPER. 71 

nior, disordered revelling into tJie ruined monastery of Robert le Diable ; wher- 
ever they go, they carry with a bird's flight every passion and every love. Oh 
these Frenchmen, and these Frenchwomen, how they can make much out of 
httle ! — a great singer out of a cooper, a danseuse out of a piece of gauze, a lyric 
poet out of M. Scribe, and a danseur out of the first-comer. 



CHAPTER XIX. 

PARISIAN AMUSEMENTS. 



The Opera is not only the temple, consecrated to music and dancing, a pro- 
fane and noisy temple to which repairs every soft Parisian passion ; it is besides, 
on certain days, marked out by human folly, the most frightful pandemonium 
which has ever appeared in the dreams of foolish youth ; certainly, Paris i?, 
above all others, the city of thought and labor, she is the head of France, she is 
the heai't of Europe. In this supreme city, are manufactured in one day, more 
revolutions and more ideas, than in all the rest of the world in a month. Ev- 
ery morning, this terrible city is in need of an immense number of facts and ideas 
to live upon ; the most distinguished writers are occupied night and day in discus- 
sing politics and literature, in shaking monarchies, in ruining poets, in manufactur- 
ing systems of philosophy, in founding new, or ruining or defending old systems 
of religion. The expenditure of wit, rapture, imagination, and style, each morn- 
ing, in order seriously to amuse this great city is incredible. All the kingdoms, and 
all the kings of Europe, all the soldiers, all the legislators, all the poets, are 
called upon to play their part in this human comedy called the Neicspaper, and 
in order that the show may be interesting, and somewhat amuse the Parisian — 
that satiated and weary spectator — this comedy is seasoned, as much as possible, 
with calumnies, hatreds, and injuries. Parties attack each other, fight, and 
slander desperately ; every reputation is torn in pieces, every glory is annihila- 
ted; it is like the cry which resounded through the city of Jerusalem: " Wo 
to you ! wo to you! and finally, loo to myself!'''' Such is, each morning, the 
Parisian's first pleasure. At the bottom of these said newspapers, have been 
placed for some time, all kinds of romances and histories, filled with the most 
tender and most touching turns of love. It is a strange, incredible medley ; a 
black line suffices to separate, in the same sheet, political anger and languishing 
love, the Chamber of Deputies and the boudoir of the coquette ; here they de- 
claim against the oppressors of the people, a little lower down they tell you of 
the doings of fine gentlemen and beautiful ladies. In the columns above they 
defend the throne and the altar, in the columns below, they teach you the paths 
of vice. There is a supply for every taste and for every age, without reckoning 
great crimes full of mysteries and paradoxes, when they happen, and such oc- 
casions always afford much pleasure to this immense city. Witness that pretty- 
poetical poisoner, who has alone, done more to amuse it, than all its poets and 
artists united. After this first relaxation, Paris amuses itself with a solemn and 
awful game, the game of coquetry and money. The women are occupied in 
making themselves beautiful, the men in making themselves rich ; the former go 
to their milliners, the latter to the Bourse : the two desperate and delightful 
games of fortune and beauty. 

On the pait of the playei's, the joy is great. To turn over the mai-vellous 
finery, the laces, the ribands, the rich velvets ; or to know that with one word 
all the money in the kingdom will lessen or increase ; to return home, laden 
with flowers, hopes, fresh tissues, with a new bonnet, or an eastern shawl ; or to 
return after having gained a million, and to know that that million is there, fol- 



72 LUNDI GRAS THE OPERA BALL. 

lowing you, trembling, obeying like a slave, ready to serve the slightest caprices 
of its master, this is certainly enjoyment; M'ell, the men and women of Paris 
amuse themselves all in the same way, each in his sphere ; to be beautiful and well- 
dressed, this is the delight of the women ; to be rich and consequently honored 
is that of the men. The Parisians are busy beings ; they raise themselves, they 
push themselves forward, they take care of themselves, as a French poet says. 
To see them from noon tih five o'clock, in the chamber, at the bar, on their 
seats at the tribunal, in their studies, in their counting-houses, you would never 
!)elieve, that they are the same men you saw yesterday evening, so calm and so 
happy, amid trifling conversation; thus life is twofold with this people; pleasure 
and toil, coquetry and ambition, the improvidence which throws away its money 
and its time at random, and the foresight which provides for bad days ; thus if 
you were to be told to what delirium, to what revelling, the great Parisian city 
abandons itself from time to time, you would hardly believe it ; for usually, rev- 
elling is resei-ved for people who have but little amusement, but let the privi- 
leged evenings of winter arrive — wait till the Easter fetes are passed, till the 
month of May has cast its white flowers, till the Parisian villa has lost its sweet 
repose, its refreshing shades, its clear waters ; wait till the happy of the world 
have returned from their journey to Italy, through the picturesque scenery of 
Switzerland ; let the month of December and its saturnalia arrive, then you 
will see everywhere — dissipation, balls, delirium, and joy; you will no longer 
recognise the 6^57/ city; you will have only the enamored city before your eyes ; 
it is hardly to be believed, but I know it, J, who speak to you, have seen it. 

It was Lundi gras, the last but one of these days of folly; the cold was in- 
tense, the sky was blue and brilliant, the stars danced in the heaven, and I saw 
more than one disappear from the magic circle, like a danseuse who has sprained 
her ankle ; it was almost midnight ; the whole city slept, or rather pretended to 
sleep, it was silently waiting for twelve o'clock, the hour for spectres. Mid- 
night — the awful moment which calls up so many wandering souls, in the old 
castles of Germany — is the delirious hour of folly in the Parisian city ; and 
now it strikes, there is the signal ; oh happiness ! suddenly the darkness is illu- 
minated ; silence is replaced by noise — from all these motionless houses, escape 
with bursts of laiighter, not men, not women, but nameless beings, covered with 
tinsel and false countenances ; where are they going in their harlequins' and 
clowns' dresses ? where are they going — this one dressed like a shepherdess, 
that one covered with rags ? Follow them ; all of them are hastening to the 
opera, to the great general festival ; the festival commences in the very street, 
so impatient are they that they can not wait to reach the dancing pandemonium. 
Walk slowly through the galleries of the opera, and watch these masks passing 
one by one; how calm and sedate they are ! how quietly they walk arm in arm! 
would you not say, they were honest people going to their business ? But by 
degrees the saloon is filled — from top to bottom it is one blaze of light, as though 
you were in the open day ; at this hour, all is still and calm ; the ladies are 
gravely seated at their posts, the men look at, and try to recognise each other; 
what silence ! When suddenly you hear a noise like thunder ; it is a thunder- 
bolt, a tempest, an overwhelming uproar ; at once all these heaits begin to beat, 
with unanimous delirium: fury, enthusiasm— takes possession of every mind; 
these men, these beings, just now so calm, begin to caper, one carrying another, 
and to throw themselves into the giddy pell-mell of the unrestrained and form- 
less dance ; they cling to each other, they press one against the other; with one 
consent they bound through the intoxicated crowd, that shares all their frisk- 
ings ; throughout the saloon the folly is the same ; those who can not dance, who 
want both space and strength, look with all their eyes, and with all their souls, 
at this indecent skipping. Ah I who could count all the different persons in this 
obstinate dance ; who could tell all its positions, all its costumes, all its shriek- 
ings, all its appearances ; the human imagination, if it summoned up at once all 
that it possesses, m.ost fantastic, most elegant, and most hideous, could form no idea 
of the embroideries, the rags, the golden mantles, the pollution, the dresses bor- 
rowed from the greatest men, and the frightful cassocks which the bagnio would 



A STE-ANGER'S amazement THE FIRST MASKED BALL. 73 

not accept. Every epoch, every place, every costume is employed on these 
days of carnival ; the twelve peers of Charlemagne and the courtesans of Louis 
XV., the market-ladies, and the red heels of the Q2il-de-Bceuf, elbow and push 
each other, without form or ceremony in this excited mass: and if you could 
take off the masks from these men and women, how amazed would you be, at 
the distances which separate them ; here girls of twenty years old, who would 
die of fright if they thought they could be recognised ; there, old women, out- 
casts from society, who are as happy to assume the mask, as though they could 
with it, assume their former beauty. 

The magistrate, under a harlequin's dress, struggles with one who has been 
more than once in confinement, but now wears a magistrate's robe ; the peer of 
France dances opposite the liberated galley-slave. Oh! how ashamed these 
men would be, if they knew who their partners had been ; what polluted hands 
had been held out to them; above all, in the midst of these groups, in the thick- 
est of this festival, which has not its fellow in the world, you see moving from 
time to time, two frightful rascals, whom French gayety has adopted as its most 
accurate type, two bandits covered with blood, two thieves, Robert Macquire 
and his companion, Bertrand : without these two, there is no good fete in Paris ; 
their hideous tatters, their abominable puns, are as necessary, at a masked ball, 
as the music and the wax candles; they are welcome everywhere, they are loved, 
received, admired, waited upon. They have replaced the Sganarelle, the Gros 
Jean, and the Gros Rene of Moliere ; Robert Macquire and Bertrand have 
marvellously assisted, in the secondary and terrible justice of French wit ; but 
after all, the laugh of these two bandits is a laugh without gayety — their pitiless 
sarcasms breathe the fetid air of the bagnio. I can imagine, taking everything 
into consideration, that Paris, satiated with all the emotions of art, good taste, 
and good sense, can sometimes be amused with these frightful paradoxes in flesh 
and blood ; but you must grant, that to the stranger who has long studied with 
love, and passion, and respect, all the greatest beauties of so beautiful a lan- 
guage — that to him who arrives in Paris, knowing by heart the Gil Bias of Le- 
sage, and the comedies of Moliere, the dehghtful drolleries of Hamikon, nay, 
even the fables of La Fontaine, to him it is doubtless a melancholy subject of 
astonishment, to see the whole French nation, so renowned for its atticism, 
amusing itself with the puns of escaped galley slaves ; then, you perceive that 
you do not know one single word, of this beautiful French language, so well 
spoken and so well written. It is no longer a language, it is an abominable pa- 
tois, it is pedlar-French worthy of the markets and public places ; the French 
society which you have come so far to seek, is thoroughly metamorphosed. I 
compare French society to a great masked ball, for it is impossible for a nation, 
any more than for an individual, to disguise itself so completely that it can not 
be recognised, under its borrowed dress and countenance. Let us wander back, 
in thought then, if it please you, to the first masked-ball at the Opera ; it was 
under Louis XV., there was at that time most distinctly, what are called the 
city and the court — that is to say, citizens and great lords, clowns and dutch- 
esses. Until then, Paris and Versailles had been completely separated : the 
masked ball was to imite them for an hour ; it was an excellent opportunity for 
the marquises and the dutchesses, to learn how a financier and a lawyer were 
made, and vice versa. The idea seemed good and new, it was accepted with 
enthusiasm by both parties ; for the curiosity of each was equal, and to such an 
excess was it carried, that the queen herself, yes, the queen of France, was wil- 
ling to show herself in this crowd, where every one recognised her less by the 
haughtiness of her step, than by the respect which surrounded her. Yes, but 
at that time the Opera ball was, at most, only a promenade, filled with chatting 
and whispering ; each came to the fete in a grave, sedate costume ; intrigue 
walked formally, and threw into her walk, if not much decency, at least much 
good taste and reserve. In a word, you would have said at that time, that Ver- 
sailles had absorbed Paris, that the city had remained subject to the court ; yes 
— but now go to the Opera — throw yourself into this pell-mell, any description 
of which is utterly powerless — see the great Chicard enter, followed by his de- 



V4 ROMAN CATHOLIC SERVICE THE SINGING. 

moniacal band — listen to the noise, the cries, the yells, the insults, the hoarse 
words of love, and tell us now, if it is the court which absorbs the city — if it is 
Versailles which absorbs Paris. Where are you, ye elegant young lords, prin- 
ces of the blood ? where are you, regent of France, whom the Abbe Dubois 
masqueraded, and you above all, the beautiful queen, the all-powerful majesty — 
you, the sainted Marie Antoinette of Austria, where are you ? 



CHAPTER XX. 

RELIGIOUS CEREMONIES. 



After the Opera, which enters more or less into the life of every Parisian, 
what the fashionables of Paris prefer, above all things — though you will doubt- 
less think it most unhiiely — is a rehgious ceremony: but it must be a beautiful 
ceremony, full of pomp and dramatic effect ; for instance, a burial, a marriage, 
or, better still, a sermon. There is in Paris more than one church, which is 
quoted to you, for the brilliancy of its lights, the perfume of its incense, the 
beautiful voices of its singers, and the number of its choristers. They tell you 
of the curate's laces, of the richness of his ornaments, and the embroidery of 
his surphce, just in the same way as they would speak of the shawls and dresses, 
of some great coquette. What would you have ? The church does not choose 
to be abandoned for the theatre ; she therefore defends herself in the best way 
she can, and even with worldly arms. You wish for singing, music, beautiful 
ladies, fine dresses, good authors ; here you will find theni all. The church 
will become a theatre, the chapel a boudoir ; they will build profane little tem- 
ples, expressly for the use of the frivolous affected women, in the neighborhood 
of the Chaussee d'Antin. Oh my American brothers, so pedantic and so stiff! 
oh my English cousins-german, you who pride yourselves upon the austerity 
with which you celebrate the holy sabbath ! do me the kindness to enter one of 
these places of worship, where everything is arranged to please the eye. It is a 
high day : the bells have been ringing since morning. The porters have put 
on their fine liveries, the ushers have decked their proud necks with the silver 
chain, the whole church is loaded with hangings, and chandeliers filled with 
wax candles ; the choristers are dressed in white, the Levites have assumed their 
most beautiful robes ; by degrees arrive, the most amiable devotees of the neigh- 
borhood, who are but little accustomed to devotion. The street is filled with 
carriages and horses, the church with the prettiest and handsomest catholics : 
and wherever there are ladies, men, as a matter of course, make their appear- 
ance. For the church, the costume is not the same as for the opera : the dress 
is less striking, the figure less shown; you do not see the head uncovered, to be 
sure, but then what new bonnets, what velvets, what embroidery ! They do not 
look full at each other, but only sidewise ; they speak in a low voice, and 
hardly dare to bow to each other. They are the same people, but at this mo- 
ment they are playing a different part. They are playing at the game — of hear- 
ing mass or chanting vespers. In what atmosphere are you ? You yourself 
do not know. The thousand perfumes which fill the sacred spot, have no re- 
semblance to the incense which the priests are burning. The patchouli, the 
eau de Portugal, the sweet smells exhale a thousand odors, which are of them- 
selves sufficient to distract you from any idea of God. But silence ! they are 
about to sing ; not to sing the psalms which contain so much Christian austeri- 
ty, not to recite the lamentations of the awful prophets : they have wisely sup- 
pressed all these terrors ; or at least if they still sing them, it is to new airs, little 
melodies, full of grace and brilliancy. That the illusion may be more com- 



THfe SINGING FANNY ELLSLER. 75 

plete, it is the opera singers who become the church singers. The evening be- 
fore, they were exclaiming in their loudest voice, " / love you.' I adore you! 
return my affection, my beloved /" In the morning, they sing the Dies irte, dies 
ilia ! or the Super jiumina Bahylonis, Illic flevimus ! &c. And, wonderful to 
relate ! if they were entirely occupied with love, while in their amorous ecstacy, 
they are now equally taken up with melancholy and mourning, in their chanted 
lamentations. At these delicate sounds, our young catechumens suddenly beat 
time, by a charming little nod. If, unfortunately, one of the invisible singers 
happens to insert a note, which is not in the scale, suddenly you see all the 
brows knitted, and with a little more, the house of the Lord would resound with 

those sharp sounds, of which artists have so much fear ! This is what is 

called, by courtesy, a religious ceremony ! Then when divine service is finish- 
ed, each leaves, looking meantime very curiously at his neighbor. Immediately 
the convei'sation becomes louder and more animated. People ask each other, 
" If Mr. Such-a-one did not sing well ? or if he did not sing better at the opera 
the other day ? If the curate is well ?" The curate passes, and is saluted with 
a smile which seems to say, " The mass has been very fine I" They tell me, 
that one of the curates in Paris had become celebrated for the magnificence of 
the ceremonies at his church, and the good grace with which he did the honors 
of it. Unfortunately, this curate was made a bishop, and the church has again 
become grave, serious, and Christian, so that it is no more frequented than the 
other churches in Paris. 

We are in the Chaussee d'Antin, and in a quarter quite new, inhabited by the 
marchionesses of the Rue du Helder, the countesses of the Place Breda. Have 
they not built here a pretty little church ? so delicate, so well painted, so cool 
in summer, so warm in winter, that the ladies consider it an honor, to perform 
their devotions in this beautiful spot. It is here, among all kinds of handsome 
arm chairs, covered with velvet cushions,that you may read in every variety of let- 
ter,the name of Fanny Ellsler. Fanny Ellsler, your divinity, my brothers of the 
New World, her whom the French have made you Americans carry in triumph! 

Fanny Ellsler ! this, then, is the velvet on which she kneels, the arm-chair 
which supports her, the footstool on which she approaches heaven, she, the 
profane and frivolous creature, whose mind and belief are summed up in the 
dance ! On this Christian velvet, what can she say in a low voice fo the serious, 
and awful God ? What prayers can she address to Him ? And how can the 
holy God receive this rose-colored paternoster, pronounced between two jests, 
or two smiles ? Assui'edly, it is only in France, that you can meet such con- 
trasts. This is the only country, where you will find thus blended in the same 
censor, sacred and profane incense, — where the Magdalen, not a penitent, brings 
to the foot of the cross, the exuberance of her enthusiasm and her spirit. But 
nevertheless, so it is, — at the bottom of these worldly frivolities, you will find 
not only religious ideas, but religious influence, such as it is. This man who 
has lived a graceless life, wishes to die well, and he calls dying loell, having at 
his death-bed, a priest who will close his eyes, and say to his soul, " Depart, 
Christian soid! Profisciscere, anima Christiana.'''' Another, who has led the 
wildest life, throwing to the winds his contrary passions, his soul, his mind, the 
past, the future, all that he is, all that he may be, — suddenly, some fine morning, 
discovers that this is not life, — that life is a serious thing, and that he must be- 
come honorable and devout ; then he recalls with transport, his father's house, 
the domestic roof, the white hairs of his grandfather, the smile of his mother, 
the happy darlings of his father, and his own joyous infantile cries, when he was 
but a spoiled child. Sweet and holy visions of domestic happiness and glory ! 
At first, he repulses these remembrances, as a man repulses the first approach 
of remorse. He says to himself — " It is impossible ! I am too old, it is too late ; 
the life which I have adopted is too agreeable, for me to renounce it ; a life of 
festivals, of enchantment, of love and passion, and delirium of every kind; it is 
too late !" But this said, the sweet domestic vision reappears, showing him, in 
the distance, a young and pretty wife, and lively, charming children. It is done, 
our man is half conquered ; he does not yet acknowledge his defeat, but he does 



76 A PARISIAN MARRIAGE — POPE PIUS VII. 

better than acknowledge it, he loves it, he is proud of it. For, in the midst of 
his reform, he has already discovered the beautiful young girl of whom he dream- 
ed, the pure and innocent youth, which will shed upon his name, the sweet eclat 
of her beauty and her virtues. Oh happiness ! the task is much easier than you 
first imagined, young man. Society has not repulsed you for ever, — on the 
contrary, she returns to you with joy, she holds out her hands to you, at the 
same time that you extend yours to her; she rejoices over your victory, while 
you rejoice over your defeat. And now, the altar is decorated, the church is 
filled with incense and harmony, the organ bursts forth in a thousand joyous 
sounds, the wax lights diffuse their uncertain clearness, a crowd of beauties have 
run to assist at this marriage, of which the whole city is full ; — at last, here is 
the young couple ; how pretty is the bride ! what grace in her carriage ! what 
taste in her dress ! with what serious joy, does her delicate little head bow under 
the blessing of the priest ! Now, all conversation is stopped, every one listens, 
every one looks, and prays. Even the Voltairian himself, he who has learned 
in the school of his master, to ridicule and question everything, is moved, from 
the bottom of his soul : the fact is, that on the great occasions of life, the united 
prayer, the brilliancy of the altar, the voice of the priest, the sotmd of the organ, 
the display, the pomp, and the majesty of the catholic church, are not without 
having their influence, on the destinies and the future happiness, of the man Avho 
summons to his aid, religious ideas. Every mind feels the need of this assistance, 
and in this incredulous country, it has always been so. When in the height of 
his power and his glory, Napoleon Bonaparte summoned Pope Pius VII. from 
Rome itself, and from the heights of the Vatican, there was excited round his 
Holiness a unanimous enthusiasm. The whole of France, the France of Vol- 
taire and of Diderot, of Robespierre and St. Just, prostrated itself, before the 
steps of the holy old man. The pontiff", melted even to tears, no longer recognis- 
ed the awful kingdom of unbelief and storms. He asked himself, if these were 
the same Frenchmen, who had caused a woman of infamous character to ascend 
the high altar of the church of Notre Dame de Paris, the same Frenchmen, who 
had, by the hand of the executioner, put to death, the grandson of St. Louis, 
the king of France, anjj not only the king of France, but his wife, and almost 
his whole family ? Yes, it is the same France, revolutionary and Christian 
France ; the France of Marat and M. de Chateaubriand, the same country which 
published the Rights of Man, and the Genie du Chrisiianisme. 

The farther he advanced into this strange kingdom, the more Pope Pius VII. 
recovered his courage and his moderation, so that his entrance into Paris was 
a real triiimph. No conquering and all-powerful king, returning to his capital 
city, was ever received with more unanimous transport. In the long succession 
of Christians, prostrate to receive the blessing of the holy father, there was only 
one young man, ill-judged enough not to receive it respectfully. Then our 
holy father the pope, an austere and energetic Italian, who felt himself at least 
equal to Napoleon Bonaparte, advancing toward the imprudent being who had 
braved him — " Young man," said he, " leai'n that the blessing of an old man 
injures no one!" Of an old man was excellent. But I think the young one 
did well to disappear in the crowd ; for at that time, the master of France would 
not have submitted patiently, to any failure of respect for his royal guest. 



THE CHURCH OF FRANCE — THE TRIBUNE OP THE CHURCH. 77 

CHAPTER XXI. 

THE CHURCH OF FRANCE. 

It is thus that in France, the church mingles with everything. In vain would 
a man of some courage evade this common obligation, he is obliged to submit to 
it. The less the church is written in the laws of the country, the more is it in- 
dicated in its manners. '■'■ Bowiliy head, proud Sicambrian .'" said the bishop when 
baptizing Clovis, king of France; ^^ Boio thy head, proud Sicambrian !" is still 
said by the church, to each one, as he enters or quits life. The church has her 
share, in all the joys and all the griefs of this singular people. Like the opera, 
she has her fashions, her customs, her dresses, and her favorites. And in these 
later times, the church of France has mingled more than ever, in the excite- 
ments, the wants, and the exigencies, of every-day life. Beyond the church, — 
there is the Bible, there are the two chambers, there are books, speeches, con- 
versations, various interests, Voltairians, philosophers, the careless, the skeptics; 
there are those who say with M. Dupin, " That law is atheistical," a horrible max- 
im, which makes atheism, the foundation of all society ; but also, in the church 
itself, you will find forces, which can be opposed to all these united powers. 
What is it you say, about the two chambers and the newspapers ? Where is 
the moral authority of the chamber submitted to election ? or where is the 
power of that other chamber, into which no one enters, except with white hair, 
without having even the hope of leaving to one's son, the title of this peerage 
during life. What do you think of books which no one will read, and newspapers 
subject to general refutation ? The church has a much better defence than 
newspapers and books. For tribune, she has the pulpit. From its height, the 
church speaks, not only of human interests (vile and perishing things), but she 
speaks to men of their conscience, of their liberty, of their holy belief, of the 
gospel ! Thus, in the shadow of the pulpit, have arisen illustrious and bold 
young orators, already powerful by their speech, and by their thoughts, austere, 
and eloquent, to whom the crowd listens with admiration, with eagerness and 
attention. Who would have supposed, that in the midst of this Paris, — so 
occupied with canals, railroads, the budget, colonial questions, and also with 
millinei-s, jewellers, old laces, women's bonnets, ribands, velvets, music, pictures, 
gilding, paintings, the fine arts ; — ah I what do we say ? — so occupied with 
Parisian calumny and slander, with actors and actresses, horses and carriages, 
intrigues and ambitions, danseui-s and danseuses, who, I repeat, would have 
supposed that people so engaged, would yet find time to spend a great part of 
their leisure, among religious things ? Thus, the church, forced in her last 
entrenchments, has raised, not throne against throne, nor altar against altar, but 
tribune against tribune. Ah ! you have abandoned to eloquence, the adminis- 
tration of public affairs ; ah ! you have made of speech, that vain and poor 
caprice of a degenerate people, a sort of cardinal-minister, whom nothing can 
resist, neither the people, nor the monarchy, — well, the church remembers that 
she has subdued the world by speech. You wish for eloquence at any price ; 
at the price even of your good sense and your reputation, — well, the church 
will be eloquent in her turn. She will have her eloquent BeiTyer, her growling 
Odillon Barrot, her Fitz-James, speaking from the height of his conscience and 
his coat-of-arms, her fine orator Villemaiu, enchanted with his ancient grace ; — 
all that you have in point of orators, the church will have in her turn ; she will 
have her demoniac, full of passion and anger; she will have her old man who 
remembers the past, her young man who reaches forth to the future, the orator 
who must be excited, and the orator who must be restrained. It is thus, that 
the church of France has never wanted that generous courage ready to under- 
take everything, when the point is to resist the passions and the madness of the 
multitude. 

Turn to the history of the fine arts, of poetry, of Christian eloquence in the 



78 THE ORATORS — M. DE LAMENNAIS. 

French church, and what a nnmber of great names, what grace, what power, 
what strength, what brilliancy and dignity will you behold ! At the name only 
of Bossuet, everythmg bows in France ; Bossuet has replaced Voltaire in gene- 
ral admiration ; the least religious have compared him to Mirabeau, whom 
Bossuet overtops by the whole head, for oratorical power, and the faculty of 
swaying men's minds. At the simple name of Fenelon, every heart is touched, 
sympathy takes possession of every mind ; he is the apostle, he is the poet of 
France. It is not quite twenty years, since the church of France heard, sud- 
denly, — you may imagine with what joy and pride — of a certain disciple of J. J. 
Rousseaii, who spoke, in Father Bridaine's fashion, of the sin of carelessness 
in matters of religion. His voice was melodious, his words were abundant, his 
eloquence was luminous and full of good sense ; never did the citizen of Geneva, 
from the top of that mountain, where he placed himself between Cato and the 
Savoyard- Vicar, give utterance to more eloquent language. Whence was this 
new-comer? He came from the country of M. de Chateaubriand, he was, like 
him, a Breton, but a fierce, inflexible Breton, bending to none, who struck at < 
random, brutally, without disturbing himself, as to the terror and alarm which 
he accumulated, by his language. When was the name of this new apostle, 
about whom the church was uneasy, from I know not what fatal presentiment, 
and as if she could foresee the trouble and affliction, into which he was about to 
throw her? This new-comer was the Abbe de Lamennais. He came into the 
world twenty centuries too late ; he was made for a tribune of the time of Caius 
Gracchus, he had the gait, the dauntless an'ogance, the fierce pride, the con- 
temptuous self-denial of a tribune ; he walked amid soft and enervated French 
society, armed with his iron veto, and when once he had launched his veto, wo 
be to him who was touched by it. M. de Lamennais played the part of excom- 
municator, in the present century. It was he who, through the kingdom of 
France, cried Raca to all the vanities of the age, but alas ! vanity has in its turn, 
been the ruin of him. He did not find that the world, as it was, agreed with the ideas 
of his genius, and he wished thoroughly to overturn it. The authority by which 
he had been so eloquent, soon became an insupportable weight. While he was 
proclaiming, that obedience was assuredly the safeguard of the future, he found 
that this obedience was refused to himself, and of the Holy See whose missionary 
he had made himself, he had become the dread and the scourge. Poor man ! 
how I pity him ; the part which he was destined to play in the church, had been 
played before him, the part of Luther, of Calvin, of Zwingle, of Melancthon ; 
or at least, the imposing part of Savonarola, who perished on the funeral pile, on 
which he had heaped the pearls, the jewels, the poetry, the rich dresses, the pre- 
cious paintings, all the vanities of Florence ; he died upon this pile the flame 
of which he ought to have resisted, so lively and powerful was his faith. For 
twenty years, the French church placed all its hope, upon the head of this bold 
writer who could raise mountains ; but, at last, when, by dint of audacity, this 
rebellious Chrysostom began to appeal to the people, when he had written that 
terrible gospel, in which insurrection is preached, as the most sacred of duties, 
then it was necessary to find some worthy, who could resist the torrent. The 
court of Rome was disturbed by this revolutionary, who lent it so strange and 
dangerous a subserviency ; M. de Lamennais incurred the blame of the successor 
of St. Peter. Immediately, the French priest undertook a pilgrimage to Rome. 
He would go and defend himself in person ; he would explain, what he under- 
stood by the propagation of the gospel. Vain explanations ! Useless pleading ! 
if he had spoken like Bossuet, they would not have listened to him. Rome is 
more alarmed than ever, at revolutions, tempests, storms, the great tumults 
which traverse space. M. de Lamennais returned from his pilgrimage, with 
even more bitterness and anger than he took with him. On his arrival in Paris, 
he recommenced the war against the rich and the proprietors of the world ; in 
Paris, he found a prison, as in Rome, he had found a prohibition. But against 
such courage, against such a well-tempered mind, of what use were the denuncia- 
tions of the king's attorney, or the thunders of the Vatican ? 



THE LOUNGER PARIS THE LOUNGEr'S CITY. 79 

CHAPTER XXII. 

THE LOUNGER. 

The French writers of the modern school very often use a word which is 
quite new — the word type. Whoever speaiis of type, speaks of a complete char- 
acter, a model man, a curious thing. Paris is full of tj'pes, or rather of singular 
minds, of original characters, out of which a good book might easily be made. 
The passing stranger is not very ready in seizing these shadows, these differ- 
ences, these eccentric singularities. It is necessary to walk the streets of the 
great city for some time to be able to trace with a sure hand one of these bril- 
liant meteors ; they appear and disappear, like the cloud or the smoke, and to 
overtake them, and seize their fugitive forms, or say to them, " Stop, and pass 
before me !" is only to be done by a bird's flight. Take, for example, from all 
these types, the following — the Flaneur — a Avord quite Parisian, to repre- 
sent a passion which is quite Parisian. Not certainly but what the 
Englishman or the Russian (for we would condemn no one) might, with 
much time and trouble, make an admirable flaneur (or lounger), but no one 
really lounges, except in Paris. Paris is the principal city of loungers ; it 
is laid out, built, arranged expressly for lounging. The broad quays, the mon- 
uments, the boulevards, the public places, the flowing water, the domes, the 
pointed spires, the noise, the movement, the dust, the carriages which pass like 
lightning, the active, restless, foolish crowd, the schools, the temples, the great 
men who elbow you at every corner of the street, the beautiful gardens, the 
water, the statues, the Emperor Napoleon whom you meet everywhere, the sol- 
diers who march to the sound of all kinds of music ; the Palais Royal, the most 
immense shop in the world, where everything may be bought, from the diamond 
of the finest water, to the pearl at twenty-five centimes ; the mob, the motion, 
the engravings, the old books ; the caricatures, living histories of the absurdities 
of every day ; and the permission to do everything, to see everything, with your 
hands in your pockets, and a cigar in your mouth ; and the readiness with which 
you can immediately, and for very little money, procure all that you wish : the 
libraries open to every comer, and the museums, where centuries of the fine arts 
have heaped up all their splendors ; and the academies, and the colleges, and 
the fetes, and the ceremonies — without reckoning what we purposely forget ; — I 
hope this is a sufficiently extensive theatre for lounging ! The Pont Neuf, yes, 
the Pont Neuf alone, would supply the lounging of a thorough lounger for 
twenty years. The Pont Neuf in Paris I why, for the lounger, it is the Eldo- 
rado, the universe, it is the ever-changing and varied fete ; the Pont Neuf! the 
Pont Neuf! 

Remember that the lounger does not acknowledge that he is a lounger ; on 
the contrary, he considers himself— happy man ! — the busiest and most labori- 
ous person in the world. He a lounger ! how can you imagine such a thing ? he 
has a perfect horror of idleness ; he is hardly risen in the morning, before he be- 
takes himself to his favorite work. If an artist, he is at his painting ; a poet, at 
his poem ; a statesman, at his correspondence. You shall see how he will work 
to-day, for it must be confessed he is not quite satisfied with yesterday ; yester- 
day he went out. to look for a document which he wants, some advice of which 
he is in need, a little color for his sky, blue or black — but now he will do without 
it, he will not stir out all day, time is too precious ; it is the thread of which the life 
of man is spun. " Now,'" says he, " for work." Our hero heaves a sigh, and at last 
his resolution is taken ; the color is on the pallet, the inspiration has come — or 
the white paper is waiting for the laborious writer ; yes, but there is a provoking 
ray of the sun shedding its bright light below in the street — or else here is a tire- 
some cloud, throwing darkness into my room ; and then it is cold — it is warm — 
my head is heavy. ..." If I were to profit by this moment, to go and see my 
friend Theodore," says the lounger to himself; "Theodore lives not far from 
here, he is always at home till six o'clock, he gives good advice, and he reaUy 



80 THE lounger's RESOLUTION — THE PASSAGE DES PANORAMAS. 

loves me ; I will go — it is only a raomeot's affair. On my word of honor, I shall 
be back in an hour. Madame Julien," says he to the porteress, " I shall be 
back immediately ; if any one calls upon me, tell him to wait ; and take care of 
my fire, and get my dinner for me, for I mean to work all day, and part of the 
night." So saying to Madame JuHen, who laughs in her sleeve, be goes out 
into the street. He is no longer the same man. His head is raised, his chest 
dilates, his legs feel lighter, life reascends to his cheek, hope to his heart. He 
looks at everything with as much astonishment as our first father Adam could 
have felt v/hen he awoke in the midst of the works of creation. At this moment, 
he has forgotten everything ; his wife, if he has a wife (but more often the 
lounger is not married), his creditors, his work, his ambition, his genius, every- 
thing, even himself. If he were ill, he would forget his malady, while lounging. 
There he is : make room for him. While the crowd respectfully gives place to 
him, he sees it not; he mingles in it without knowing it, Avithout intending it, 
as wave mingles with wave. The crowd draws and pushes him wherever he 
wishes to go. 

One day, while lounging, the lounger found himself seated on the throne of 
King Charles X., in the midst of the palace of the Tuileries. Under the fire of 
the SavIss, he was looking at the works of Jean Goujon, and the revolution, en 
passant, carried him into the throne-room. Another day, while lounging in the 
Rue St. Merry, he found himself placed before the first fire of a barricade, and 
he was much astonished, when, from one lounging to another, he found himself 
on the roof of the houses, among heroes and victims, so that he had been all but 
killed on one side, and had nearly received the croix d'honneur on the other. 
Better still, his ruling passion, lounging, led our hero one day — when he had 
been watching with much surprise how a gate was forced — into the court of as- 
sizes. But the king's attorney gave up the suit when they told him, " He is a 
lounger !" The lounger is the most innocent and the most artless person in 
this great city. He spends his life in looking without seeing, in listening with- 
out hearing, in walking without making any progress ; he admires everything ; 
he is like the man who cried, "Ah! oh!" and "Oh! ah!" On his road, he 
notices a number of little mystei-ies, quite unperceived by any one else. Why 
that pot of flowers on the fifth story ? Why that white curtain half drawn ? 
Why that little song so early ? Why that sharp cry at midnight ? He knows 
whence comes that billet-doux, and from which side the reply will be sent ; he 
could tell you, but he is discreet. He obsei-ves, that on passing the door of a 
certain house, at three o'clock, you will see there a black cabriolet drawn by a 
bay horse. Will you foUoAv the lounger ? yoii have courage, and yet it is an 
enterprise beyond you. The lounger is everywhere, and nowhere. He is in 
the garden of the Palais Royal, to regulate his watch by the cannon which fires 
off, discharged by the first ray of the midday sun. He is on the Quay Voltaire, 
occupied in contemplating the antiquities of the curiosity-venders, or looking at 
the celebrated men of Madame Delpech. He is in the Rue Richelieu, formerly 
the great centre of Parisian lounging, but now conquered and surpassed by the 
Place de la Bourse and the Rue Vivienne; however, in the Rue Richelieu, the 
lounger amuses himself by looking at the site on which the fountain dedicated 
to Moliere is to be raised. But above all, we shall find our man in the Passage 
de rOpera, at the hour when the rehearsal commences, and there he sees pas- 
sing, in every kind of dress, in satin shoes, in slippers down at the heel, and even 
without any shoes at all, the pretty little danseuses, to whom glory has not yet 
held out her hand, filled with laces and cachemires. Lounger ! — that word im- 
plies everything. He will go to the Morgue to salute with a melancholy glance 
the corpses of the previous evening; he will goto the Champs Elysees, to assist 
at the exercises of the learned dogs ; to the Jardin des Plantes, to throw a piece 
of cake to the bear Martin. At the Jardin des Plantes, he wishes to know how 
the giraffe is, whether the great turtle has laid any more eggs, if the little ser- 
pents have eaten their white mice ; he wishes to salute, by turns, all the mon- 
keys, who grin with joy, as though they recognised a brother lounger. The 
, Passage des Panoramas is his abode ; there he is under shelter, there he is at 



THE lounger's OPINION OF THE RAILROAD. 81 

home, there he receives his friends, and makes his appointments, and there you 
are sure to meet him. And what finer saloon can he have than this Passage des 
Panoramas ? Where will you find more numerous visiters, and more liberty ? 
Where will you find prettier faces in the morning, and more brilliant gas in the 
evening ? Never was a saloon better filled with masterpieces, music, refresh- 
ments of every kind. There, never did tobacco, never did "beer, never did the 
newspaper, never did the grisette, disappoint their constant admirers. But 
the lounger loves all these things, he loves them without restraint, without folly, 
gravely, hke a wise man, who is without wants, without passions, without vanity, 
without fancies ; who can dispense with everything, except lounging. Good, 
worthy man ! never melancholy, never morose, never distressing himself 
about anything ; but, on the contrary, turning everything to the profit of his 
ruling passion. If there is a tumult, he is by no means displeased : he will 
know how the scuffle ends ; if it is a burial, so much the better — he will as- 
cend the black carriages ; if it is a marriage, better still, he will go very near 
to see the bride, and will shower blessings upon her. He also ventures upon 
baptisms, and public fetes ; the Chamber of Deputies does not displease him, 
but he only goes there on those days when the chamber is full of eloquence 
and anger ; he loves the opposition, because it draws things out to a great 
length. To the Chamber of Peers, the lounger prefers the Court of Peers. 
There you see the accused, you hear the avocats, it is the Covirt of Assizes, 
raised to its highest degree of power. Once, he went to Versailles, to see 
the museum, but he swore that he would never go again by the railroad ; a 
carriage which takes you up and conveys you to your destination, without 
once crying, " Take care !" You are no sooner started, than you arrive ! 
Pshaw ! What is the use of setting out, unless it is to feel yourself go ? 
" Talk to me of the cuckoos of the time," says the lounger ; " in them you 
are always starting, and you never arrive." 

It is well understood that the lounger orders his dinner at home every day, 
and that it is never prepared for him. He dines wherever he happens to find 
himself when hungry ; when he has discovered some choice fish, something just 
come into season, some pleasant spot where he can freely give himself up to his 
wishes. Those who have never seen one of the beautiful dining-rooms of which 
Paris is justly proud, can form no idea of the eclat and luxury with which you 
may eat a beefsteak. All around are crystals, precious bronzes, columns, glass- 
es, gildings, every part shines ; eager servants are there ready to obey your 
slightest wishes ; the kitchen is excellent, the cellar is full ; the wine is in the 
ice ; at the counter is seated a well-dressed, and often, handsome woman ; and 
here the lounger enters, impelled more by his instinct than by his hunger. He 
is alone, like a true dreamer ; he throws himself into a little corner, and there 
he sees all the diners enter, one after the other ; he recognises them by their ac- 
cent, their dress, their manner. He says, this one is a Norman and that one a 
Picardine. Very soon, without intending it, he understands their best concealed 
desires, their most modest ambitions ; he knows that this one has obtained such 
an inheritance, that another has just asked the croix d'honneur for his father, 
and that a third is in search of his wife who has come to Paris under a man's 
name, to write comedies and romances like George Sand. Thus the human 
comedy is unrolled before this man, thus he profits by the conversations and 
thoughts of other people. His dinner finished, he walks in the rich galleries 
of the Palais Royal ; this is his summer saloon, just as the Passage des Pano- 
ramas is his winter saloon. From merely running over the brilliant windows of 
these magnificent bazars, he knows what sales have been made during the day; 
a bracelet'has been bought ; a false tuft has disappeared; what has become of 
the little woman who sold stocks ? Then he stops before the large pillar, to 
which are pasted all the notices of Paris loaded with the grotesque and awful 
names which the public seeks. Where shall he go ? Where shall he not go ? 
To the Theatre Francais? It is very old. To the Porte St. Martin? It is a 
long way off. The Opera pleases the lounger, for at the Opera people lounge 
more than they listen. And the Cafe Lemblin, why is it opeii then ? And the 

6 



82 THE CAFE DE LA REGENCE — PARIS AT NIGHT. 

Cafe de la Regence, of what use would the Cafe de la Regence be, if you were 
not at liberty to go in and see what is passing there ? For instance why should 
he not assist at one of those beautiful games of chess which call into action all 
the intelligent powers of the two players ? Chess, draughts, even the game of 
dominoes, are delightful to the lounger. Not that he plays at any of these 
games, it is true that he knows them thoroughly, he understand them, he pre- 
judges them; but he leaves to others all the trouble of the game, all its dis- 
quietude and its humming; he keeps for himself all the curiosity and pleasure 
of it. He loves public places ; you enter when you will, you leave according to 
your inclination, you are silent or you speak, you are at home, or at the house 
of your friends, you are your own master and owe to no one either a bow, a visit, 
or a smile. Not that the lounger is difficult of access ; on the contrary he talks 
willingly, he is within the reach of any afid all, he does the honors of his beloved 
city with ease, he knows, better than an Edile, the streets to be cut, the rising 
neighborhoods, the islands which are being surrounded with powerful dikes. At 
the very thought of the fortifications which the two chambers have just voted 
expressly for him, he rubs his hands with joy, and in fact, what a splendid field 
for lounging; a rampart fifteen leagues round ! The evening is thus passed in 
listening to the noises of his dear city. But by degrees the sounds diminish and 
cease ; silence is gently spread through the streets. If you still wish to hear 
noise and to find life, motion, and the brilliancy of lights, you inust return where 
you were this morning — to Tortoni's. At eleven o'clock in the evening, the 
Cafe Tortoni is no longer a place for eating, it is a saloon for sherbet and ices. 
If this morning you heard only of money and stock-jobbing within these walls, 
this evening the conversation turns with equal earnestness, upon love and plea- 
sure. The most elegant beauties, and the most agreeable young men, hasten to 
this last rendezvous of the evening; for Tortoni's they abandon the iinfinished 
opera; they leave the theatre before the last stab ; Paris chooses to see itself in 
its beautiful dress before retiring to rest. What are all these Parisians about, 
pray ? They are exhibiting and looking at themselves; they look only at them- 
selves,, and when this object is attained they are satisfied, and are ready to act 
the same part over again to-morrow. 

Our lounger then, also repairs to the Cafe Tortoni. He passes and repasses; 
he listens and hears ; he watches the ladies and gentlemen, as they ascend their 
carriages and drive off, one after the other ; and when, at last, fashionable Paris 
has quite disappeared from his sight, then sighing, he resolves to return home ; 
but, as the French fabulist did to go to the aca^lemy, the lounger takes the 
longest way. There are in Paris places which he only knows; frightful pas- 
sages, labyrinths, ruins, courts inhabited by all the thieves of the city, this is 
the road he chooses ; he goes, with his hands in his pockets, through these dark 
passages. Ah, this certainly is not a pleasant sight ! this is the reverse of the 
brilliant medal ! Paris at night is frightful ; it is the time when the subterranean 
nation begins its course. Darkness is all around ; but by degrees this darkness 
is enlightened by the trembling lantern of the rag-hunter who goes with a 
scuttle on his back, seeking his fortune among the hideous rubbish, which has 
no longer a name in any language. At the corner of the darkest streets, burns 
with a funeral hght, the lamp of the wine-shop, through curtains red as blood. 
Along the walls glide — uttering from time to time the cry of some night bird — 
thieves, pursuing theirobject ; women go and come, seeking the cellar where they 
shall pass the night ; for these degraded people sleep in cellars. Thus the danger 
you incur is great and terrible ; the steps which are heard slightly resounding on 
the muddy streets, are those of the gray patrol who commences his eager chase. 
The farther you advance into these awful neighborhoods, into the cut-throat 
places which surround the Palais de Justice and the Place de Greve, the more 
imminent the danger becomes. Certainly to expose one's self to so many perils 
in these scandalous streets, one must be either a great philanthropist or a great 
lounger. 



A Yankee's opinion of the book — the author's defence. 83 

CHAPTER XXIII. 
A Yankee's opinion of the book. 

I was reading my book, to a neighbor of mine, a Yankee, who had never quit- 
ted his native mountains. He is a man of much wit, half wolf and half fox, 
who rarely leaves home, and he said to me ; "Acknowledge that you are very 
difficult to follow ; you go on at random, hke an unbroken horse ; scarcely have 
you entered this great Parisian city, of which you give us a pretty good idea, 
before you suddenly alight upon the palace of the Tuileries, and once there, it 
is impossible to make you leave it. My dear sir, this is not what is called know- 
ing how to travel. Since you are telling me of your visit, it is necessary, that 
you should lead me, so to speak, by the hand, through this immense city. I 
wish — thanks to you — without leaving my chair, to cross its bridges, its streets, 
its magnificent quays, its abominable alleys, to learn something of its luxury 
and its vice, and finally, to have some idea of its mysteries. Take pity, then, 
upon my ignorance, and since you are in Paris, tell me about Paris." 

To which I replied, not without checking myself, lest I should be too warm 
in my defence : " But my dear friend, Paris is not merely an assemblage of 
houses, palaces, temples, and fountains ; it is also a world of passions and ideas ; 
the time is past, for the traveller to think his task accomplished, when he has 
told his reader — The Bourse is a fine building, situated at the end of the Rue 
Vivienne. Now-a-days, one must — apropos of the Bourse, for instance — tell, 
not only of what the walls are composed, but what passions inhabit these walls, 
and how these evanescent fortunes are made and lost. Your description ! what 
would you have me do ? The painter and the engraver will always be more 
successful in that than myself. What I describe, they show you ; what I speak 
in your ears, they place before your eyes. This perambulation is divided into 
two parts, the exterior and the interior city, the walls and the inhabitants, the 
houses and the manners. Leave me, then, my dear sir, to tell you in my own 
fashion, what I have seen and heard and understood, in this immense city. I 
have no idea of being so thorough in my description, as to take from you the 
wish of some day seeing Paris for yourself!" 

At the same moment, 1 took my neighbor to a spot of which he had never 
before heard, I led him to the French Institute. At first, he was astonished at 
the Louvre, which seems about to join the garden of the Tuileries, and the 
Arc de Triomphe. He admired the vast panorama, which spreads to the right 
and left, when once you have placed your foot upon the Pont des Arts ; here, 
the statue of Henry IV. proudly presiding over the Pont Neuf; there, when 
your delighted glance has crossed the Pont du Carrousel and the Pont Royal, 
extends even to the Bourbon palace, that immense horizon, of which the dome 
of the Invalides is the culminating point. Continue your course, and cross 
slowly the iron bridge ; you are now very near the institute, sir. The old bronze 
lions, from their open mouths, throw a stream of water into a stone basin. . . . 
It is one o'clock. It is a fete day at the palace of the Four Nations, as it was 
formerly called, in the time of Cardinal Mazarin. What rare good fortune I 
follow the eager crowd. When two o'clock strikes, the gates of the monument 
will be closed, and the Fi'ench academy, in full uniform, will proceed to the re- 
ception of some new genius. 

I have not come so far, to ridicule the most serious institutions of France. 
In my opinion, it is a poor return for the hospitality of a nation, to traduce it in 
its government, its literature, or its manners. Letus leave to the French them- 
selves, the excellent amuseinent of covering each other with insults and out- 
rages. . . . We will do better, we will speak of everything, and even of the 
French Institute, with all humility and respect. 

I will suppose, that, on the road, some kind person has given you a ticket of 
admission. You enter. Porters in full dress, with swords at their sides, and 



84 THE FRENCH INSTITUTE — M. DE CHATEAUBRIAN0. 

lace on their'cuffs and the bosoms of their shirts, walk before you, and place 
you, not far from the amphitheatre, which contains the members of four or five 
academies. Already there is a numerous assembly. It is composed of aspi- 
rants to this difficult honor, the most beautiful ladies in Paris, who take care to 
show themselves within this learned enclosure, strangers like you and me, and 
a dozen merry fellows, who have come expressly to make fun of everything, and 
then to laugh aloud in the world, at what they have laughed at, in an under tone 
at the institute. At the appointed hour, for the academy is well aware, that 
punctuality is the politeness of kings and academies, a large folding door opens.. 
Suddenly you see passing before you, the members of the different academies. 
At first you are dazzled, and recognise no one. They all have similar blue 
dresses, lined with green, dangling swords, and modest reserved looks. For- 
merly they all had bald heads, shining like ivory, but during the last ten years, 
the youngest minds have encroached upon the old men ; so that one of the 
marks by which you may recognise the academicians, is, the having an abun- 
dance of black hair, or not a single hair, even white. We are now speaking 
only of the French Academy. We leave the others in their learned shade, lest 
we should find ourselves encumbered. Certainly, if the utility of the Academic 
des Inscriptions, is not very positively proved to us, any more than the utility of 
the Academic des Sciences Morales, at least, no one can doubt the labors, the 
usefulness, and the numerous struggles of the Academy of Sciences. But how 
is a man to know where he is, amid all this illustriousness ? And then, the 
French Academy is the mother of all the rest. She sprang, ready armed, from 
the brain of Cardinal Richelieu. Louis XIV. recognised her : she has received 
into her bosom, all the glory of the French eighteenth century. The Emperor 
Napoleon, in spite of his dread of election, which is the saving principle of the 
French Academy, approved this institution so highly, that for a long time, he 
signed himself — lionaparte, member of the institute. The Institute means the 
reunion of all the academies. The French Academy, means the forty, the 
original number of the first academy. Take it altogether, it is one of the pow- 
ers of the state; it is a great moral force; the opposition of this entirely literary 
body has much weight ; to belong to the French Academy is to have a right, 
equal to a seat in the house of peers. What a noble idea, to have formed a cat- 
egory expressly for men, who live by their intelligence and their mind ! 

Such, however, is the popularity of some of these men, that you will recog- 
nise them, even under their embroidered dresses, without their being pointed out 
to you. That large head, that high forehead covered with gray hair, that calm, 
pensive attitude, must certainly belong to the illustrious author of the Genie du 
Christianisme, and the Martyrs ; it is M. de Chateaubriand. That man still 
young, of slight and easy figiire, with a fine head, proud look, beautiful hands, 
and hair turning gray, is M. de Lamartine, the poet of the Harmonies and the 
Meditations. That sparkling look, that animated little head, that abrupt, lively 
gesture, that smile without wickedness, but not without malice, is M. Thiers 
This one must certainly be M. Guizot ; you may recognise him by his pensive, 
cold, grave look ; M. Mole is that well-dressed gentleman, who looks a little like 
M. de Chateaubriand. M. Victor Hugo owns that enonnous, and somewhat 
unfurnished cranium, that young, chubby-faced head. And that one, who is 
the honor, the joy, the strength, the child, and the glory of the academy, he 
who speaks so ably and so charmingly, in the name of all, with an eloquence 
quite academic — you have already named him — it is M. Villemain. He made 
his first campaign, within this enclosure : at the age of twenty, the academy had 
palms for this young man. She was moved and delighted to hear him speak 
in such beautiful terms, of all the literature of ancient or modern times. Thus, 
on the days of her greatest solemnities, in her discourses before the throne, when 
she wishes to speak exactly the language which is most suitable, when she 
would announce her dictionary in a worthy manner, that work of centuries, al- 
ways finished, and always recommencing, the person whom the academy choos- 
es, is M. Villemain. And that countenance, melancholy rather than gay, that 
curious, intelligent look, that concealed sipile which reveals itself internally— 



MM. SCRIBE AND DE TOCQUEVILLE- 85 

to whom does it belong ? He is the man who has afforded the greatest fund of 
amusement to France : he is the most fertile and most varied inventor that ever 
held a vast audience in suspense ; he alone, has brought about more impossible 
marriages, than Fenimore Cooper and Walter Scott between them : he alone, 
has been the delight of France for twenty years. His good fortune has equalled 
the copiousness of his mind. His name is become so popular in Europe, that 
out of France, it is often put to works which he has not subscribed ; he is an 
improvisator ; it is M. Scribe. He is the king of the Theatre Francais and the 
Opera ; he reigns at the Gymnase and the Opera Comique. Here, where you 
see him seated, the father of comedy in the modern world, the only man who 
has not his equal, among all the nations of antiquity, Moliere himself was nev- 
er able to sit down. 

Look where you please, and look boldly. These gentlemen are quite aware 
that people come to their assembly only for the purpose of seeing them ; that 
they are here, expressly for people to ask who they are ? Those who are still 
conversant with Latin — many of them never knew anything about it — repeat to 
themselves the lines of Horace, where he says, " It is a pleasant thing to be 
pointed at in a crowd, and to hear people ask. Who is he ?" At pulchrum est 
digito monstrari et dicier, Hie est ? 

Well, since he pleases you, I can tell you, that you have already seen him at 
the Chamber of Deputies — it is M. Dupin. And that very young man ; look 
at him, it is our good country of America which has made him a deputy, a 
member of the French Academy. Yes, that is IvI. de Tocqueville himself. 
Without him, and if before him, we had taken the trouble to explain the mys- 
teries and the mechanism of our constitution, M. de Tocqueville would not yet 

have borne the green palms If he had only begun his book with the last 

two volumes ! Stop ! that man with such anintelhgent, pleasing countenance, 
who listens to nothing, and sees nothing — who holds in his hand two or three 
beautiful volumes, bound in old morocco, is a true member of the Academy. 
He understands French as well as its inventors. He knows the grammar as 
thoroughly as a child who has just left the class ; he has read for amusement, 
as you would read a frivolous romance, all the dictionaries which have been 
printed in France, since the beginning of dictionaries. He has an acute under- 
standing, a clear plain style, and a candid mind, is a distinguished critic, an 
honest man, the wisest scholar of the time — to sum up all, it is M. Charles No- 
dier. Not far from him, that man who twists and turns, who is about to read 
you a fable, and a fable in which there is much poignancy, is a man whom all 
the powers of French wit have tried to make ridiculous, and who has escaped 
ridicule by a miracle, as a man escapes from a burning vessel in the open sea : 
he has saved himseh''by his boldness. He has confronted the laughers, and has 
proved that he knew how to be true, sincere, and loyal in everything, without 
reckoning his moments of wit, of rapture, and of invention ; we speak of M. 
Viennet. So true is it, that in France you must never despair of clever men. 

But now the reading commences. The new academician has composed a 
long discourse, in which his end is, first to explain the talent and character of 
him whom he replaces, and then, to explain his own works, and by what course 
of ideas he has himself attained academic honors. Between these two ends, the 
orator generally gives himself up to all the possible ramifications of his subject. 
From this height, where none can contradict him, he judges facts and men ; he 
takes up with the same facility, politics and literature. He is more often polit- 
ical than literary ; for romancers and poets are pleased to quit the beaten path, 
at least once in their lives, and to give to modern history and former politics, an 
earnest of skill, wisdom, and foresight. A good discourse at the Academy 
usually lasts three quarters of an hour, or at most an hour. After which, who- 
ever may be the orator that speaks, the assembly listens to nothing that is 
said. 

When the discourse of the new-comer is finished, another academician rises 
to reply to him. Custom ordains that the new compeer, who has just given 
himself up to all his natural humility, should be raised in his own esteem, and 



OD M. BERANGER THE FONT NEUF. 

that of his companions. They show him, then, with every mark of respect, that 
he is quite wrong to think so hghtly of his own glory, and that he is at least, 
the worthy brother of the illustrious men who surround him : they tell him of 
his own genius, and finally add, that the Academy hopes much, from the new 
strength which has just accrued to her. This said — unless the sitting is en- 
livened with some extraordinary verses, a little story, a harmless fable, or an ep- 
igram without malice — the assembly separates, as it came together, in the same 
order; and you will judge that it is no mean thing, when passing proudly before 
the Hotel de la Monnaie, the mansion where all the gold and silver of the king- 
dom are manufactured, to say to this hotel, " You can strike off a million in a 
day, evanescent and perishing riches, which every hundred years must be sent 
back to the crucible ! But what you can not do, with all your power, the Acad- 
emy has this moment performed in our presence, she has inscribed another name 
upon the annals of renown !" 



CHAPTER XXIV. 

M. BERANGER. 



Since you are in so pleasant a road, allow the crowd to disperse, while com- 
menting upon all the fine things which they have just heard. Profit by this last 
moment, to have one more look at some of those men, of whom you will be 
asked on your return, " Did you see him ?" — M. Arago, M. Geoffray-Saint-Hi- 
laire, when he appears in this brilliant cohort. Do not look here for the poet 
Beranger ; he lives in the memory of all, but you will not meet him in any part 
of this great city, which he has enlivened with his songs. Not long since, in 
this same crowd, you would have asked to look at three very different men, the 
^nghsh Christian, M. de Talleyrand, and George Cuvier. 

And when at last your curiosity is satisfied, do not recross the Pont des Arts; 
abandon that to the members of the Institute, who take the longest road in go- 
ing to the Academy, and the shortest in returning from it. Since we are in this 
beautiful part of the city, we will turn to the left, and at the distance of a hun- 
dred steps, we shall find the Pont Neuf. This is the first point which unites 
the two shores of this immense city. It has been said, that if you remain a 
week on the Pont Neuf, looking at those who pass, you will infallibly meet the 
man you want. This bridge has been traversed by the whole history of France, 
under its different phases. Here were sold pamphlets against Cardinal Mazarin, 
and songs against Louis XIV., as long as Louis XIV. allowed people to sing 
songs against him. On one corner of this peninsula, comedy was born ; not 
then the comedy of Moliere, but the comedy of Tabarin, the mounteback of the 
Pont Neuf. Even now — when so many bridges have been thrown across the 
Seine, when at every step you meet the Pont Louis-Philippe, the Pont des 
Arts, the Pont du Carrousel, the Pont Royal, the Pont des Deputes — the Pont 
Neuf is, and long will be, the passage most frequented by the crowd, the favorite 
bridge of the Parisians, who have placed it under the patronage of their old 
friend, Henry IV. On every side, the Pont Neuf leads to some important place. 
It formerly led the condemned to the Greve ; it still leads the lawyers to the 
Palais de Justice, the accused to the prison of the Conciergerie, the suspected 
to the prefecture of police, and the peers of France to the Luxembourg. At 
one time — when the whole of Paris lived by wit ; when the conversation was 
composed of tragedy, comedy, eloquence, and satire; when Voltaire domineered 
over the eighteenth century from the boards of his Comedie Francaise ; whea 
the Cafe Procope was a sort of chamber of deputies, whose decrees were with- 



THE FLOWER-MARKET — THE LAST LOVE OP THE OLD LADY. 87 

out appeal — the Pont Neuf was eveu more frequented than it is now. At cer- 
tain hours, you might have seen passing and repassing, in tliese paths of philos- 
ophy and rebellion, all the great minds which have overturned or restored the 
world. At one time or another, or perhaps all at once, you might see Diderot, 
D'Alembert, Freron, Condorcet, Pirou, Beauraarchais, the whole Encyclopedia 
marching by, with matches lighted, and standards unfurled ; without speaking 
of the great poet, Gilbert, who ^vas carried from the Cafe Procope to the hospi- 
tal. Now, thanks to the two chambers, thanks to the periodical press, thanks 
to the liberty which has penetrated into minds and manners, there are no longer 
known in Paris such assembUes of intelligent minds at every hour of the night 
and day, such cafe rebels, such revolutions carried on behind the scenes, such pit 
conspiracies. Now, the Pont Neuf does not lead to the Theatre Francais, open to 
all the passions of that awful hour ; it leads to a closed theatre called the Odeon, 
and at last — oh what a change I — almost opposite the Place de Greve, so long 
covered with scaffolds and blood, the Pont Neuf wih conduct you, if you please, 
to the Marche-aux-Fleurs. 

A flower market in Paris, close by the Palais de Justice, not far from the 
muddy streets of the city, where vice, crime,and filth, have taken up their abode ! a 
flower market in the immediate neighborhood of escaped galley slaves, assassins, 
and forgers exposed on the scaffold. ... Is it possible ? It is even so. This 
is one of the singular contrasts, which are to be found only in Paris. So come 
with me, and salute the monthly rose, and the spring tulip, and the laurel-rose, 
and the modest violets, — modest yesterday, but which to-day display themselves in 
all their freshness, in hopes to meet a purchaser. Come, — ^you will find in this un- 
expected flower garden, field flowers by the side of those which come from the 
hot-house, sweet smelling lilacs, and the magnolia grandiflora, the pot of mig- 
nionette at six sous, and the proud Camilla, the honor and the eclat of the winter 
soirees. Here you will see arrive, with all the speed of her Enghsh horses, the 
noble lady from the fashionable faubourg. This lady, already old, has preserved 
none of her evanescent affections, except a great love for flowers. Nothing can 
now please or amuse her. For her, the sweetest music is but a vain sound lost 
in the air ; the most beautiful painting by Rubens or Titian, is only a confused 
mixture of faded colors ; poems have no longer a single verse which speaks to 
her soul ; balls and fetes find her fatigued and satiated beforehand ; even dress 
displeases her. Worse yet ! chatting, Parisian chatting, which is the joy and 
triumph of these fine ladies, has lost all its charm, if not all relish, with this poor 
woman. She no longer loves anything, she does not wish to love anything, and yet 
she does. love these beautiful flowers ; she is still intoxicated with their sweet soft 
odors ; she knows all the names in the floricultural calendar, she recognises the 
smallest blade of grass, gathered in the fields. — " Oh the white china asters ! the 
sweet-smelling wild thyme sung by La Fontaine! the periwinkle so loved by 
Jean Jacques ! the fresh turf of former days ! where, in my childhood, the old 
park of my father covered me with its thick shade, while the swan glided slowly 
along the lake, to come and salute the daughter of the family I" Poor woman! 
these are her dreams. Her childhood has passed, as these exquisite flowers will 
quickly pass ; her youth has vanished, as the perfume of the lily will quickly 
vanish, that flower of the kings of France. What has become of those happy 
years, and those aff'ections which were to be interminable ? And diat everlasting 
beauty, how is it that it has taken so speedy a flight ? Nothing but ambition 
now remains in her heart : nothing but regrets for the past. It is then among 
flowers, that our Parisian has come, to seek the only sweet and charming emotions 
which remain to her. And with what care she studies them ! with what delight 
she carries them off! And, immediately on her return, what a happy hour does 
she spend, in adoi-ning her house with them ! 

Quite contrary to the great Parisian lady, who only loves flowers when she 
has nothing else left to love, the Parisian grisette loves flowers before she begins 
to love anything else. The latter commences, as the former finishes. There 
is not, in all Paris, in the melancholy heights, in the sloping garrets, where the 
house sparrow hardly dares take his flight lest he should be giddy, — a single girl, 



88 THE FIRST LOVE OF THE GRISETTE THE FAILURE OF HER HOPES. 

poor and alone, who does not come, at least once a week, to this flower market, 
to enjoy the spring and the sky. The poor girl in Paris, who gains her living 
by the hardest labor, from whom an hour lost takes a portion of her day's bread, 
has not time to go very far in search of verdure and the sun. And as neither 
verdure, nor the sun, nor the brilliancy of flowers, nor the song of birds, comes 
to seek her, in the frightful corners where she conceals her sixteen years, it is 
she herself who goes in search of them. Nothing is more delightful to see, than 
this poor, half-clad child, coming to buy a whole flower garden in one single pot. 
She stops a long time, fearful, undecided, and curious ; she would fain see, and 
smell, and take away all. She admires their forms, their colors, their indescrib- 
able perfume ; she is delighted ! However, she must at last conclude, by ma- 
king this long-coveted purchase. The poor girl advances with a timid step. 
Madame, says she, how much are your flowers ? Your flowers ! It is generally 
a pot of mignionette which gives but little hope of thriving. At these words, 
the flower woman smiles good humoredly. Of all the honest people who gain 
their living by buying afid selling, the flower woman has, without contradiction, 
the most upright conscience, and the most sincere good faith. She sells at a 
high price to the rich, but a very low one to the poor. She thinks she ought 
to encourage so good a passion, and that it is much better, for this young girl 
to buy a flower, to ornament her wretched little room, than a riband to adorn 
herself. Thus she sells her pot of mignionette, or sweet peas, almost for nothing. 
And then the young grisette goes away more happy and more triumphant, than 
if she had, in the presence of a notary, purchased a whole domain. See her 
light step, as she carries off an estate in her arms, singing as she goes ! And for 
a week, she experiences the greatest delight. She waters the sweet plant morn- 
ing and evening, she sings to it her choicest songs, she seeks for it, some nice 
little corner upon the roof, by the side of the chimney, which protects it from 
the north wind. At the first ray of sun, which penetrates these melancholy 
walls, the flower is exposed to the pale and trembling light ; at the first whistle 
of the north wind, the flower is carefully shut up in the room, and then the 
amiable girl does for her flower, what she has never done for herself; she pre- 
vents the air from intruding through the ill-joined door, the half-open window, 
or the chimney, which has neither fire nor flame. Vain, but dehghtful efforts ! 
At first the humble plant, grateful for so much care, throws out here and there, 
a few scrubby leaves, which cheer the heart of the happy proprietor of this 
estate of half a foot; after the leaf, the flower sometimes appears, not the flower 
itself, but the hope of one. Then the grisette claps her hands. " Come," she 
says to her neighbors, '' come and see how my periwinkle is flowering." But at 
these first announcements of spring, all this hope of fertility usually stops ; night 
and cold are more powerful than the zeal of the young girl ; after a month of 
struggling and suffering, the flower fades, languishes, and dies ; it is only the 
shadow of a shadow. She weeps over it ; she thinks, this time, she really will 
give up such vain dehghts. But how can hope be stifled in young hearts ] 
When she has had a long fit of weeping, she again makes another attempt, 
fruitless as the former, until at last, this honest passion is replaced by one far 
less honest. 



PARIS UNDER A GRAVE ASPECT PARISIAN STUDENTS. 89 

CHAPTER XXV. 

PARIS UNDER A GRAVE ASPECT. 

No, certainly, and you have already discovered it, we are no longer in the 
handsome part of the city; we have entered grave, serious Paris: this is the 
awful spot where are united, in one common centre of restraint and threat, the 
Conciergerie, the Palais de Justice, the Prefecture of Police : here men no 
longer laugh, they no longer throw away their lives in all the happy leisure of 
affluence and youth; it is another city, another people. The Hotel des Princes 
is replaced by horrible furnished houses ; the splendid table by frightful taverns, 
where there are dinners at twenty sous ; the Opera or the Comedie Francaise, 
by one or two dens in which are howled melo-dramas intended to be sung. All 
is gone ; no more elegance, no more beautiful horses, no more rich dresses, 
none of the never-ending fetes. Even the young men whom you meet on your 
road, have no resemblance to the young men of Tortoni and the Boulevards; 
indeed, at the present moment, you have, without knowing it, ascended the 
learned hill ; you have passed the studious heights of the Rue St. Jacques, you 
have brushed by the Hotel Dieu, the college of France, the Sorbonne, the old 
church of St. Benoit-le-mal-Tourne, and indeed it may well be called St. Benoit- 
the-ill-turned, for they have metamorphosed the delightful church into a ballad- 
theatre. Thus you are passing through the midst of ancient Paris; here is the 
Ecole de Medecine, higher up the Ecole de Droit, and higher yet, the Ecole 
Polytechnique — three schools, which between them, form the whole occupation 
of the French youth. 

The pupil of the Polytechnique school you may recognise, by his handsome 
uniform, the sword which he carries proudly by his side, and the profound glance 
which he throws upon everything around him. He is the child of his works ; 
before attaining the honor of wearing this dress, he has had to pass through much 
anxiety, much obstinate labor, and many sleepless nights. He is at once a mili- 
tary man and a civilian. He has only two years before him to complete his for- 
tune, and if unhappily he is not considered capable of taking a part in either of 
the employments which the state destines for this school, he is ruined ; his long 
studies become useless to him, his difficult labors have produced no result ; he 
knows too much to obey, too little to command. Hence arises much anxiety 
for the pupil at the Polytechnic school ; properly speaking, he has no youth ; 
he will be young by-and-by, if he has time. 

We can not say as much for the medical student, and the student at law ; 
these latter, on the contrary, begin by being young ; whoever takes care of 
his youth, they will lavish it ; and usually this sweet treasure is squandered 
in all kinds of idleness ; easily excited passion, games of domino and bilhards, 
balls at the Grande Chaumiere, duels, disputes, politics, and smoke. But, 
strange to say ! when our student has led this life for two years, at the very 
moment when the pupil of the Polytechnic school is about to take his place 
among the engineers of the sappers and miners, in the high-roads, or in the 
army, then, behold, our student renounces his pipe, his mistress, billiards, debts, 
and folly, and sets to work in earnest. He knows the hour is approaching when 
he must live by the labor, the bread, of every day, when society will ask of him 
an account of the sacrifices she has made for him ; but once at work, our young 
idler of yesterday advances with a giant's step in the path of science. His aroused 
attention is eagerly turned to all the mysteries of physiology, or the civil code ; 
he studies day and night, and gains his object. Instead of the insolent dancer, 
the duelist about mere trifles, you have suddenly a fine modest young man, a 
good clever talker. French intelligence is so quick, the power of early educa- 
tion is so strong ; this society in which each pays personally, is so exactly formed, 
for throwing out in bold relief virtue and vice, talent and ignorance,that one 
must, whether he likes it or not, obey so many public and private exigencies. 
Thus, however the moralists may cry and groan over the pretended depravity of 
French youth, you need never despair of these lively, clever minds, always ready 
to do more, in less than a year of zeal and perseverance, than would be expected 
of them at the end of three or four years of assiduity, patience, and labor. 



90 THE PALACE OF THE LUXEMBOURG — ITS GARDENS. 

In this elevated quarter of the Latin country, on these heights which possess 
their own style of beauty, and whose history is so full of learned and ancient re- 
membrances, you will find two buildings which excite much interest and curios- 
ity, the palace of the Luxembourg, and the Hotel Royal des Invalides. 

If it please you, we will go through the palace and the garden of the Luxem- 
bourg, where we will pause, though not quite so long as at the Tuileries, for 
each of these palaces is a whole history in itself. The palace of the Luxem- 
bourg is of Florentine origin ; those who have never seen the Pilli Palace at 
Florence, tell you that the Pilli Palace was the model of the Luxembourg 
Palace, which in fact resembles it as much as a stone fountain resembles the 
cataract of Niagara. However this may be, the palace of the Luxembourg has 
a grand and imposing appearance. It was, at first, composed of two pavilions, 
but now has three ; for a third has recently been added to the other two ; so that 
the Chamber of Peers, when it becomes the Court of Peers, may have a suitable 
hall, in which to summon the accused to its bar. A gallery of paintings by 
modern artists, forms a promenade for the peers ; the library contains a numer- 
ous collection of the most learned treatises on political science. Here, every- 
thing is great, imposing, and magnificent ; but it is the garden which is so beau- 
tiful and popular ! A double terrace overlooks the whole : this is large, airy, 
and splendid. The trees are as old as the garden of the Tuileries, the basin is 
larger. It is said that in the summer nothing can equal in beauty the collection 
of carnations and roses. The head gardener of the Luxembourg is M. Hardy ; 
he is a well-informed man, and so jealous of his flowers, that not a peer of 
France can obtain a cutting of them. This garden of the Luxembourg is in- 
habited by a distinct world. Lady ! it is no longer the luxury, the elegance, the 
brilliancy, the intrigue, of the garden of the Tuileries ; there are no longer the 
handsome children of the aristocratic families of the Faubourg St. Germain and 
the Faubourg St. Honore ; but, on the contrary, it is the garden of the citizen, 
the student, the father of a family, the artist who comes here to dream of his 
painting, and the poet to compose his verses. In this garden of the Luxem- 
bourg, all are acquainted, and all love their companions, even without ever hav- 
ing spoken ; people look at each other with kindness, so sure are they of having 
felt, in these walks, the same joys, and the same sorrows. How many young 
girls have come here to dream of the husbands proposed to them by their 
mothers ! How many young men, who have pondered, under these trees, upon 
the difficulties of life! There is one old man, whom the garden of the Luxem- 
bourg has seen every day for sixty years ; he has grown old like the elms which 
he saw planted, and he can tell you better than anyone — young men — that after 
all, it is not worth while to be so uneasy about the future I Do you see that bench 
in the sun, which leans against that broken statue ? On that bench, while he 
was living, the greatest disciple of Condillac used to repose, the clearest and 
most philosophical mind of the French nineteenth century, M. de Laromquiere. 
There you could see and hear him, if you wished to follow him in the slightest 
degree. He was mind, grace, and good humor personified ; he loved this trade 
of a peripatician, and what he would never have consented to repeat in his pro- 
fessor's chair, he would willingly say again in the open Luxembourg, to the 
young men who were around him. The garden of the Luxembourg is thus 
peopled with illustrious men, who are only to be met here ; they are at home 
in this spot ; they were brought here the morning after their birth ; they will 
walk here till the eve of their death. So also, into this garden, protected by the 
political palace, hardly any exterior noise penetrates, unless it is the echo of 
the College of France and of the Sorbonne. At the Luxembourg, nothing is 
read but the oldest books bound in vellum, or better still, in old red morocco — * 
Horace, Virgil, Homer, Demosthenes, Bossuet, Feuelon, Pascal. If, then, by 
chance, some trifling book just published, dares to show itself in these learned 
walks, suddenly there is a general outcry ; they recognise with indignation the 
vulgar livery of the library. Away with the romance I away with the poem I 
Every one escapes from its light-mmded reader, and points at it with the finger. 
A novel from the reading-room, in the Luxembourg ! Can you imagine it ? 

Quite at the end of the garden, when you have passed the gate, guarded 



THE BOWL-PLATERS M. DE TURENNE MARSHAL NET. 91 

by a veteran of the ai-my, you will suddenly find yourself iu the midst of the 
most eager bowl-players. The game of bowls, in Paris, much resembles a 
battle ; for this amusement, it is necessary to have the coup d'oeil of a gen- 
eral, and the strong arm of a soldier. Victory is never certain in this conflict, 
for which strength and skill are equally necessary. The crowd is looking on, 
eager but silent, and placed on the two sides of the players, hke a long train 
of notes of admiration. On one occasion, when M. de Turenne was walking 
here, there was a point in dispute, and he was made arbitrator. " I think 
monsieur has won," said the hero, pointing to one of the combatants. " &ir, 
you are mistaken," said the other ; " it is I who have gained !" At these 
words, M. de Turenne put one knee to the ground, took a straw which was 
lying there, and measuring both bowls, "You see," said he, "that it is you 
who are wrong." 

In the neighborhood between the Luxembourg and the royal house of the 
Invalides, M. de Turenne became popular, by all kinds of indulgence, affable 
repartees, and bon mots; to see him so simple and unaffected, you would never 
have guessed that he was the greatest captain in France. One day, when he 
was at the play, two young men threw down the prince's gloves and cane ; 
immediately the highest officers, and the most celebrated men of the court, 
hastened to pick them up. You may imagine how confused and ashamed 
the young men were ; they were about to retire immediately. " There, there," 
said M. de Turenne, at the the same time sitting a little closer, " there is room 
enough for all three of us!" 

But why do I tell you all these things ? Because my guide as we passed, 
pointed out to me, on the first floor of a house which looks upon the boule- 
vard, the window from which M. de Turenne was leaning, when he received 
that heavy blow from his valet. "Ah, monseigueur," said the unhappy La- 
fleur, " I thought it was George." " And if it were George," replied the mar- 
shal, rubbing the injured member, "you should not strike so hard!" 

Thus is it with the French ; they are won by the most unassuming virtues of 
their great men. They have no longer anything but a confused recollection of 
M. de Turenne's battles, but till the end of the history of France, you will hear 
the account of George, and the dispute over the game of bowls. Henry IV., 
too, why is he so popular ? Not for the battle of Ivry, but for the bread which 
he ordered to be thrown into the city which he was himself besieging, and 
for his wish, that all his people could have a good dinner every Sunday. In 
France, for glory to be loved, it must be either amiable or unfortunate. In 
point of unfortunate glory, believe me, you need not go far ; remain where you 
now stand, and on your left, look at that door, against which the most intrepid 
players hardly dare to throw their bowls. It still bears the marks of bullets, 
and there Marshal Ney, the favored child of victory, was shot. He had been 
condemned to a traitor's death, by the Chamber of Peers, which would now 
willingly tear from its annals this page of blood. Neither the courage of this 
hero, nor his gallant actions in so many and such difficult wars, nor the retreat 
of Moscow saved by him, nor the interest and pity which filled all minds ia 
view of his great misfortunes — nothing could soften King Louis XVIII., who 
insisted upon his death, as though it were a point of honor. The marshal, be- 
fore his judges, found all his old courage. They wished to plead in his favor 
that he was not a Frenchman, but he cried out, that he would not accept a life 
defended at such a price. He was condemned — he must die ! They awoke 
him early, as though it had been the day of a battle. " Come," said he, " I am 
ready !" The funeral procession silently crossed the same garden of the Lux- 
embourg which is now trod by the light steps of so many joyous children, under 
their mothers' care. Arrived at the gate, the procession stopped. " Halt !" 
They obeyed. The marshal himself took his place at the door, and there, 
erect, his eyes unbound, his hand upon his heart, he, for the last time, gave the 
word to fire. At the first discharge he fell dead. A few sisters of charity, who 
were passing, raised this brilliant soldier, this noble courage, this glorious rem- 
nant of the French army, a man whose name was worth a host, and whose death 
has only served to throw a sanguinary hue over the first years of the Restoration. 



92 REMINISCENCES — M. ARAGO AND M. DE CHATEAUBRIAND. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

REMINISCENCES. 

Let us leave these sad remembrances. The longer cities last, the more they 
are filled with such miseries which may be met at every crossway. If you have 
any love for historical associations, nothing is more easy than to indulge them 
here ; stretch out your hand, and say, " Where I now pass, a poisoner and a 
parricide has passed before me ; in these streets men have been hanged, tortured, 
and burnt ; books, too, those eloquent witnesses, those passionate depositories of 
liberty, have been destroyed by the hand of the executioner." Then think of 
the civil wars, the religious battles, the tumults that have taken place, only since 
the time of Hugh Capet ! Do not, then, seek in this city, miseries removed by 
the lapse of ages ; do not look for ruins replaced by monuments of yesterday ; 
do not inquire for past slavery, it has been effaced by present liberty ; but, on the 
contrary, in this modern Paris, look only at that which is apparent. Remember 
that you are a simple traveller, passing through an hospitable country. Raise 
your eyes. That high tower, proudly erect upon its base, connected by a long 
avenue with the garden of the Luxembourg, is the Observatory of Paris. There 
lives and reigns, in a contemplation unhappily disturbed by political discords, M. 
Arago himself. What a singular, incredible life ! to follow at the same time 
the course of the planets above, and the movement of popular passions below ; 
to have one's head in the clouds, by the side of the stars, and one's feet in tu- 
mults ! to predict the arrival of the comets wandering through space, and to suf- 
fer one's self to be led by popular favor, that wind which blows at random .... 
such is the twofold life of M. Arago. To this twofold life of day and night, he 
only is equal ; no other person has sufficient health, strength, and courage, 
thoroughly to accept this double labor of the scholar and the tribune. It is a 
beautiful kingdom, this Observatory, where the only query is about the sun and 
the stars ! It is a delightful life, spent in being the first to listen to all great dis- 
coveries ! And how is it that such a man has ever allowed these sublime heights 
to become the ante-room of the Chamber of Deputies ? 

But now, if you take a few steps to the left, you will reach a modest house, 
concealed amid a large garden ; this house is at the extremity of the city ; all 
kinds of noises still sun-otmd it ; there is nothing to distinguish it from other 
houses, and yet, as you look through the closed gate, you feel, without knowing 
it, that the respect of men has surrounded this dwelling, which has evidently 
belonged to something more than a citizen. Yes, you are right to look with in- 
terest at these noble walls ; they have sheltered the poetical king of this century, 
the master of learned Europe, a man similar to Goethe, in his all-powerful in- 
fluence, but of more elevated genius than he ; a man who has, unaided, raised 
the flame of religion, beaten down by so many crimes and sophisms. In a word, 
this house, of which he made an hospital, was built and inhabited by M. de Cha- 
teaubriand. To this humble dwelling he returned on foot, the day that M. de 
Villele torned him out of the Hotel des Affaires-Etrangeres, v^nthout suspecting 
— madman that he was ! — that M. de Chateaubriand gone, the restoration must 
go also ! In this house, for fifteen years, M. de Chateaubriand received the 
homage and respect of all Europe. It is said that nothing more astonished 
English statesmen — for instance, those high and mighty lords whose whole life 
is passed in multiplying the luxuries which their ancestors have transmitted to 
them — than to see M. de Chateaubriand working in a study built of wood, with- 
out furniture, without books, and almost without fire. But if these opulent 
courtiers of genius were astonished in"1829, they would be much more so now, 
if they knew that M. de Chateaubriand had been obliged to sell this house, 
which he had made the asylum of so many misfortunes. Twenty-five years be- 
fore, he had — not sold, but — put into a lottery, his beautiful park of the Vallee 
aux Loups, a valley which he had discovered. It was at the brightest moment of 
his poetical glory ; les Martyrs and V Itinerairc de Paris a Jerusalem were still in 
theheight of their favor ; well, it was in vain that M. de Chateaubriand offered 



YANKEE RESPECT FOR GENIUS — THE JARDIN DES PLANTES. 93 

his house in a lottery — not a ticket was taken ; so that the duke of Montmorenci 
bought them all. And yet it is said that we Americans do not render to genius 
the gratitude and respect that is due to it ! Had he offered his house in a lot- 
tery in New York, not a ticket would have remained to hini at the end of the day. 

In the same degree of longitude, you will find, not without joy, the Jardin des 
Plantes, which is, properly speaking, the Parisian's country-house. Even to an 
ignorant traveller like myself, the Jardin des Plantes is the most beautiful place 
in the world. There you see flowers, turf, trees, from every country ; tigers, 
lions, panthers, bears, of every color. At the first ray of the sun, the giraffe 
walks forth, the black elephant comes to perform his ablutions in the neighbor- 
ing pool, the family of the monkeys throw themselves with a thousand gambols 
into their palace which is open to the day ; beautiful birds, and these of the 
rarest kinds, here sweetly warble their most charming songs. Never, to please 
the eyes, were more enchantments united in a more happy spot ; here, all 
the natural sciences are equally represented. Here, the three kingdoms of na- 
ture are blended in an arrangement full of art, taste, and science. This Jardin 
des Plantes, the beginnings of which, under Louis XHI., were of the most 
modest kind, has at last become — thanks to the genius of M. de Buflfon, and the 
protection of Cuvier — a genuine institution. The Jardin des Plantes, like the 
greatest kings of the world, is represented at a distance by its ambassadors ; it 
sends throughout the universe its conquerors and its gentlemen ; it also receives 
envoys from distant countries, who humbly bring it the products of their mines, 
trees from their forests, fruits from their orchards, flowers from their gardens, fish 
from their rivers and their seas. Thus, between the Jardin des Plantes and the 
whole world, there is estabhshed a perpetual exchange of all that the earth and 
sky produce, most curious and rare, most charming and terrible. One day, 
when J. J. E-ousseau returned with his hands full of plants, which he had gath- 
ered in the country, he was met by the ladies of a neighboring house, who began 
to laugh at the philosopher. " Ladies," said he to them, " do not laugh ; my 
hands are full of the proofs of the existence of God." What J. J. Rousseau 
said of a handful of herbs, might with still greater reason be said of the Jardin 
des Plantes, that magnificent collection of the most magnificent proofs of the 
existence of God. 

To a well-formed mind, nothing is sweeter to contemplate than this beautiful 
garden, placed there by a beneficent hand; it was one of the good ideas of Louis 
XHL, who was not always the restless, melancholy, undecided man, of whom 
the historians speak. This king bought, in the worst faubourg of Paris, a house 
and a few acres of ground ; this house and these few acres of ground have be- 
come a whole world : a varied, picturesque, melodious universe, thi'ough which 
have passed, not without leaving there some trace of benefit or glory, the three 
Jussieus, Buffon, Bernardin de St. Pierre — that excellent painter of the most 
beautiful flowers, whose Vandyke and Rubens he was — Geoffrey St. Hilaire, 
Cuvier, and lately that bold, clever young man, Jacquemont, who died in the 
Indies, the victim of his zeal and courage. Assuredly, these are great names, su- 
preme authorities ; and now that the Jardin des Plantes has been respected even by 
the nation of 1793, which respected neither person nor thing, no one can foretell 
to what immense results such an institution may arrive. M. Cuvier knew this 
well, when he said one day to a clever English naturalist, " My dear brother, we 
have, at present, only the skeleton of a whale ; but leave us alone, and we will 
dig for you, in this place, a basin of salt water, in which some day a little whale 
will be seen to sport." 

But it is time to leave the Jardin des Plantes. If we turn a little to the left, 
we shall come to a brook called the Bievre. On the Bievre has been placed the 
manufactory of the Gobelins, a wool which rivals the canvass spread by genius, 
where workmen pass their lives in composing a few square feet of tapestry ; 
there the masterpieces of Titian, Rubens, and Raphael, are reproduced in a 
way to last for ever ; when once the wool has taken possession of these beautiful 
works they can never die. This may certainly be called doing the work of a 
prince ! The carpets of the Gobelins, and the china of Sevres have, for a long 
time, answered for all the presents made by the kings of France; there, they were 



94 THE GOBELIN TAPESTRY — THE SEVRES CHINA — THE CHAMP DE MARS. 

sure to find a recompense for great devotion, a token of gratitude for services which 
can not be paid for by gold. Under Louis XV. the Sevres china was so highly 
appreciated that Madame du Barry herself sold to the courtiers of the ffiil-de- 
Boeuf the most costly productions of the royal manufacture. Her house was 
filled with them. Luciennes and Versailles borrowed from Sevres their finest 
ornaments. At that time the most charming painters of zephyrs, shepherds, and 
cupids, Watteau and Wanloo, and even Greuze himself, counted it an honor to 
suffer the brightest colors of their brilliant palettes to fall upon these rich porce- 
lains. Thus the manufactory of Sevres and the manufactory of the Gobelins 
held out to each other, so to speak, a fraternal hand ; they reproduced, each in 
its own way, the most exquisite chefs d'oeuvre. But when the French revolu- 
tion began to break everything, to destroy books, to cut paintings in pieces with 
its pitiless hands, to melt gold and silver, and the most costly jewels, to tear 
laces, to sell — at auction even — the marbles of the tombs, marbles of Jean Gou- 
jon and Jean Cousin reduced to dust — the revolution, above all, attacked the 
porcelains of Sevres. Nothing amused it more than to put to the vilest uses 
this frail enamel which kings and queens scarcely raised to their lips. Madmen? 
they fancied they could annihilate the past, just as they reduced to nothing 
those delicate little chefs d'oeuvre of form and color. But no ! in their terrible 
anger, they have been unable to annihilate anything, not even the cups, and 
vases, and paintings of the ceramic art. In vain did they throw to the winds 
the ashes of the kings of France ; those royal ashes found each other in the air, 
those sacred relics leave other relics, those broken tombs are picked up piece by 
piece, among the ruins of the cathedral of St. Denis. Everything rises, every- 
thing is repaired ; effaced figures, profaned inscriptions reappear upon the can- 
vass, the wood, the marble, the stone. In this old France, thoroughly overturn- 
ed as it has been, you will yet find at the present time the most incredible rem- 
nants of former days. In Paris itself there is a whole army of antiquarians, 
honest men, whose life and fortune are spent in collecting these scarce remains, 
in saving from oblivion these precious remembrances, in gathering up this noble 
dust. What they have done with shreds, morsels, nameless and shapeless scraps 
is perfectly incredible. Of the religious care with which they have restored 
broken altars, demolished temples, paintings, hangings, and soiled books, no one 
can form an idea. The more fragile, delicate, and charming is the broken chef 
d'oeuvre, the more does the love, the curiosity, the passion, of the antiquary 
augment. He knows its whole genealogy ; for whom it was made, through what 
hands it has passed, for what vile uses it has served, and who was the happy mor- 
tal that restored it to its original glory. But we have wandered far from our 
subject! Not so far as you may imagine. In the journey we are taking, one 
remembrance recalls another; the Gobelin tapestry naturally leads to the Sev- 
res china, and thence to the antiquarians, there is but one step. 

In fact, what is this great city but the longest series of passions, ambitions, 
love, pleasure, fine arts, rivalries, miseries, glories, scandals, and vanities ? 



CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE CHAMP DE MARS. 



Do not quit this beautiful path, it will lead you to the Champ de Mars, to the 
Invalides, to the most beautiful of the extremities of Paris, yes, just opposite 
those delightful heights of Passy, where Franklin made so many learned ex- 
periments, where Napoleon Bonaparte wished the palace of his son, the king 
of Rome, to be built. Fancy an immense plain, through which have passed, 
before setting out for conquest, all the armies of France since 1789 ; this plain: 
is the Champ de Mars ; over which the dome of the hotel royal des Invalides 
presides, with all its warlike majesty. On one side there is the Ecole Militaire, 



THE PANTHEON VOLTAIRE AND ROUSSEAU. 95 

built there by the financier Paris Duvernay; on the other, the Seine and the 
Pont d'lena. For one who has run through the sad neighboi hoods in which 
we are just now, to arrive here in this open space with this laeautiful prospect be- 
fore him, and the sun shining so brightly, it is a double pleasure! Then we 
were lost in the windings near the Ecole de Droit and the Ecole de Medecine, 
narrow, dark, dirty streets, with a hungry noisy population, but now we are at 
ease in the free pure air! But we must not forget the Pantheon, that ruin which 
has never recovered the shame of having sei-ved for a tomb to the infamous Marat. 
The Pantheon, that building which was intended to recall the sweet virtues, 
and the holy protection of Genevieve, the patroness of Paris — what changes has 
it not undergone! Louis XIII., that all-powerful king — made so by Cardinal 
Richelieu — wished to consecrate this magnificent temple ; he granted it ah sorts 
of privileges, he surrounded it with eclat and glory; when suddenly, almost be- 
fore the bold cupola was raised in the air, the architect Soufflot discovered, with 
despair, and bitter tears, that the base of the monument was too weak to sup- 
port this giant's head. 

Michael Angelo, it is true, had raised in the air, the cupola of St. Peter at 
Rome, but where is there another Michael Angelo ? Soufflot was therefore 
obliged to disfigure his church, to derange its interior order and harmony, and 
to change the elegant pillars into massive masonry. The work was in this state 
when the sound of war was heard from the plain of Grenelle, which was expect- 
ed to overthrow half Paris. Fear was the only punishment of Paris ; but nev- 
ertheless the church of St. Genevieve was thrown aside ; it did not crumble, but 
it remained there to attest the powerlessness of modern workmen, to show by 
this example, how solidly the church of Notre Dame de Paris was built ! But 
people were no longer occupied either with Sainte Genevieve, or Notre Dame; 
France was declared in revolution ; Notre Dame de Paris was laid waste ; upon 
its insulted altars were placed women of bad character in the guise of a god; 
Anacharsis Clootz, and all kinds of buffoons in red bonnets, filled these noble 
and holy walls, with their revellings and their scandals. As for the church of 
Sainte Genevieve, it had to submit to another kind of profanation — of a Chris- 
tian church they made a pagan temple. There all illustrious citizens were to 
be buried ; and they even wrote on the pediment of the monument this inscrip- 
tion, which is not wanting in dignity, " The grateful country to great men.'''' 
Unfortunately, the grateful country carried Marat into this temple ; Marat him- 
self, that hideous and livid rascal, who deserved little to die under the innocent, 
pure hand of Charlotte Corday ! 

Thus the Pantheon was for ever profaned, Marat once placed there, others 
would try to escape from such a disgraceful honor ; even the corpse of Voltaire, 
deposited in the vaults, could scarcely obtain a few planks which formed the 
V shadow of a tomb. Is it possible? Voltaire — the king of the eighteenth cen- 
tury, the hammer which had broken, the torch which had burned, the catapult 
which had overthrown, so many things — could not obtain a tomb in the open 
Pantheon, to which he was carried with so much pomp? ... It was with dif- 
ficulty that a few worm-eaten planks could be secured to cover him. The cu- 
rious came to look, with a thoughtful eye, upon this glory in its nothingness. 
Within these four decayed boards, was enclosed that malicious, ironical being, 
that sarcastic smile, that poet, who sang with so much gayety and coolness, ev- 
ery passion of the head and the senses. By his side, and in a tomb of the same 
wood, has been placed J. J. Rousseau, whose glory so often prevented Voltaire 
from sleeping. Two enemies, whom posterity, in spite of themselves, has joined 
together in its subjection and its respect ; the latter, irony and disbelief personi- 
fied; the former, enthusiasm and conviction; the one, an unrestrained railler, 
who threw upon every person and thing, the varnish of his immortal salhes ; the 
other, austere and grave, who was outrageous in his love for the beings of his 
own creation. Two agitators, each in his way ; Voltaire by wit, J. J. Rousseau 
by good sense ; Voltaire by flights of imagination, the author of Emilie by rea- 
soning. Long divided, J. J. Rousseau insulted, or rather we should say, denied 
by Voltaire — Voltaire protected by the pity of Jean Jacques ; they are at last 
united in the same Pantheon, just as their works are on the same shelf of the 



96 CHANGES IN FRANCE — HOTEL DES INVALIDES. 

book-case. Once there, the nation forgot them, the Empire no longer remem- 
bered them, but the Restoration recalled them in its hours of leisure and ven- 
geance ; it remembered that the Pantheon had been the church of Sainte Gen- 
evieve, and restored her church to the saint. Then Voltaire and Rousseau were 
taken without ceremony from the vaults ; the hideous Marat having long before 
been ignominiously ejected. Then reappeared the holy patroness of Paris in 
this enclosure, from which she had been driven ; then were heard in the church 
a long succession of sermons, expiations, of blessings on the Most High; along 
succession also of anger, vengeance, and threats, against future revolutionaries. 
This time, it was said, the church of Sainte Genevieve was for ever reconquered 
— reconquered, as the throne of France was, for fifteen years, at most ! Strange 
Paris ! where people always swear by eternity, an eternity of tears, an eternity 
of glory, immortal popularity, tombs against which the end of the world will 
not prevail. Vain hope! vain promises ! useless threats ! Wait ten years more, 
and a revolution will restore monuments, and opinions, and men, to precisely 
the same point as they were ten years ago. 

There is nothing in France but hospitals and prisons, which do not change ; 
illness is always illness, misery is always misery. Among so many violent rev- 
olutions, which pull down, break, and overthrow everything, you can scarcely 
recognise the monuments of this frivolous people, who are always ready to 
break on the morrow, the idols of the evenings before. 

There is, at Florence, an old palace, on the walls of which, each government 
of the republic has left its escutcheon and its mark, without the conquerors 
ever effacing the escutcheon of the conquered. Now, you may see upon these 
noble walls, a long train of emblazonments, intended to recall the passage of so 
many different powers. In France, 'such a monument would be impossible; 
whoever, in this country, speaks of a statue raised, speaks also of a statue over- 
thrown ; for twenty-five years, the occupation has been alternately to scratch out 
fleurs-de-lis, and cut off the heads of eagles. In their most insignificant em- 
blems, the Empire and the Restoration have hunted each other to death ; what 
is called old France no longer exists, except in the fragments of which we were 
just now speaking, unless indeed the ancient monument was protected by its 
own usefulness. Thus the Hotel Royal des Invalides, that monument of Louis 
XIV. so worthy of the great king, has grown with all the importance and 
majesty of the imperial wars. This dome, raised in the sky, to serve as a shel- 
ter for military glory. Napoleon wished to cover with plates of gold, in order 
that he might point it out from a distance, to the young armies, at the same time 
saying, " See under what canopies you are expected." Within these walls, 
surrounded by cannon, the cannon of fete days and popular solemnities, the 
old soldiers of France have found an asylum worthy of their courage ; there 
they live and die, under a law at once military and paternal. A mai-shal of 
France, an old warrior maimed like the others, is the governor of this house, so 
that the chief and the soldiers, before reaching this hour of repose, have Kun 
the same dangers, have met in the same battles; the glory of the one is the glo- 
ry of the other ; all are heroic old men of the same family ; only to see them 
pass, you would behold their services written on their foreheads. Modern Eu- 
rope may be asked what has been done with such men ; with such as these the 
French republic has been recognised, and the empire has been founded. There 
is not a capital of Europe, that has not trembled to its very foundations, not a 
king who has not turned pale, not a slavish people who have not murmured 
those two immortal words — liberty, hope. Ah! if you could ask each of these 
old heroes, the line which he has written, with the point of the sabre, in the his- 
tory of his country; you would certainly find a splendid action, a city taken or 
defended, a victory gained, or at least, a glorious retreat. What a noble history 
might be written under the dictation of these living and imposing remembrances! 
Memory is the life of the invalid soldier ; memory immediately cairries him 
back among the neighing horses, the thundering cannon, and the fighting bat- 
talions, while the cry of war sounds from army to army ; memory leads him to 
those celebrated plains by which future ages will doubtless profit, Austerlitz ! 
Jena! Wagram! Now he sees Italy, whose fertile plains still call him ; anon 



THE INVALID SOLDIER — THE EMPEROr's RETURN. 97 

he sees Germany, where the emperor seeks a new emperess ; a second time 
he returns to the charge against the ever-flying E-ussian ; again he finds him- 
self pniong the fiery snows of Moscow, until at last they fall — himself and his 
emperor — on the plains of Waterloo. 

Such is the life of these veterans of glory ; to speak of former wars and bat- 
tles, to be intoxicated with past glory, to see in the bright distance the emperor 
who once more calls them to pass in review before him — this is their joy, and 
their happiness. In vain is the door of this vast and beautiful hotel open all the 
day : the invalid never wanders from his last encampment ; he pleases himself 
with the benevolent shade of the tricolored flag ; he cultivates with incredible 
patience the little garden in which he has planted three helianthuses ; he brings 
up birds ; he caresses the children who pass ; above all, he sings Beranger's 
songs. Beranger is the poet of this house ; no verses but his are known or read 
here. He has sung by turns the two passions of these old men : Lisette, their 
first passion — and the emperor, their last, their most faithful love. He has 
been, by turns, an enamored ballad-maker and a warrior-poet ; wine, love, and 
glory, formed the strength of this poet. His book is a sort of gospel to these 
old men ; they wish for no other, they know no other : but when the fancy takes 
them to return to the moment of departure, to know whence they set out, before 
reaching their last asylum, then they go and walk in the Champ de Mars, and 
then they retrace their first review, their animated youth. There they came at 
eighteen years of age, thence to throw themselves upon the world ; it was there 
that they were armed as soldiers, that their first standard was confided to them, 
that the emperor pointed out to them his star, which was also theirs. Honor 
then to the Champ de Mars, that vast plain almost always deserted, where noth- 
ing usually passes, except a few idlers on horseback. I can fancy that at certain 
solemn hours in the history of these men, when the night is gloomy, when the 
wind of Moscow begins to blow amid the silence — there returns, at midnight, all 
these scattered armies, here and there, in detachments on the field of battle. 
At this moment, the great imperial trumpet is heard ; each soldier, now lying 
in the dust, rejoins his broken army, the captains again put themselves at the 
head of their legions, and this immense confusion of so many thousands of men, 
cut down by the scythe of death, give themselves up till the first cock-crowing, 
to all the deUght of conquerors ; after which, all is quiet, each corpse returns 
to its dust, each sword into its scabbard, each idea into the heart which, origin- 
ated it. ... A faithful image of the tumults and pacifications of 1815 ! To-day 
the grand army still erect ; and to-morrow, the adieux of Fontainebleau and the 
emperor, who goes on board the Bellerophon for that exile from which he was 
never to return ! 

From this eternal exile, the emperor has already returned. At this day, the 
dome of the Invalides has grown by a thousand cubits : it has become inviolable, 
it has been pronounced the only tomb which was worthy to contain such a man ! 

It is said that at the news that the emperor was on his return, more than one 
old soldier began to weep ; more than one, when the imperial coffin passed, 
threw themselves on their knees, in a silent adoration which had in it something 
of ecstasy. After which, when they understood that such a deposite was con- 
fided to them, the old men arose with all their pride, and assumed their arms 
with the vivacity of youth ! And now, it is for them a disputed pleasure, and a 
much-envied honor, to mount guard night and day at the coffin of this man, who 
is still their emperor. 



CHAPTER XXVIII. 

THE MADELEINE. 



Quite at the end of that magnificent boulevard, which we have already partly 
traversed (from Tortoni's to the Bourse), rises, in all the magnificence of mod- 
ern architecture, the church of the Madeleine. If not imposing in its appear- 

7 



98 THE MADELEINE THE GTMNASE DRAMATIQUE. 

ance, it is at least splendid. This beamiful edifice is surrounded by an immense 
colonnade ; a vast open space extends all round this half-Christian, half-profane 
monument. Is it a heathen temple ? is it a church ? is it a theatre ? It is a 
church. The front, so beautifully sculptured, already announces the efforts of 
Christian thought. The bronze doors, also sculptured from top to bottom in 
the same way as the doors of the Baptistere at Florence, are far from being as 
beautiful as the doors of Lorenzo Ghiberti, called by Michael Angelo the Gates 
of Paradise; but, still they are rich, magnificent, and varied. In the interior 
have been lavished all the treasures .of art ; bronze, oak, stone, marble, mosaic, 
painting, nothing is wanting to this. Christian church, except that it is not ex- 
actly a church. Admire the two basins of Antonin Moine for holy water, would 
you not say it was some patient, endless labor of the sixteenth century ? Is it 
not in the style of the artists from Byzance ? An artist of great merit, named 
Ziegler, has represented the history of the holy Madeleine. Paris possesses 
the Madeleine of Canova, a touching marble, full of elegance and melancholy. 
M. Aguado had just purchased it when he died. Before long it was put up at 
auction, and not one devoted Christian thought of buying the beautiful marble, 
to present it to the church of the Madeleine I The Madeleine is a monument 
almost religious, standing at the boundary of the Faubourg St. Honore and the 
Chaussee d'Antin — it presides over the whole space, extending from the boule- 
vard to the Chamber of Deputies, a vast and dazzling space, which we' have al- 
ready tried to describe to you. But since we came here, by the way of the Rue 
St. Jacques and the Pantheon, the Sorbonne and the Champ de Mars, I will 
now conduct you from one end to the other of this celebrated boulevard ; so 
that you will be able, without fatigue and without trouble, to form an idea of the 
two sides of this imposing city. 

At the church of the Madeleine commences that long succession of splendid 
hotels, to which there is nothing comparable in any capital of Europe. You 
proceed, and soon find yourself in presence of the Place Vendome and the imperial 
column ; a little farther on, you recognise Tortoni's and the Cafe de Paris, the 
gilt mansion, the first modern house that has been surrounded by sculpture ; 
very soon you reach the Theatre des Varietes, where Brunet delighted the last 
generation ; then the Rue Montmartre, which is quite as popular as the Rue St. 
Denis ; the Porte St. Denis, placed there in honor of Louis XIV. ; Ludovico 
Magna ; and just before reaching the Porte St. Denis, the Gymnase Dramat- 
ique, a delightful little theatre, which M. Scribe and the Dutchess de Berri 
raised between them. In this small enclosure are performed comedies, which 
represent the slightest accidents of every-day life. When M. Scribe, the great- 
est amuser of the age, commenced this undertaking, there seemed no scope for 
comedy anywhere ; Moliere, like a sovereign master, had taken possession of 
all the great characters; he had worked the whole of humanity for his own ben- 
efit ; there was not a vice, nor an absurdity, which had not been submitted to 
the censure and the rod of this illustrious genius. After him others had arisen, 
Lachaussee for instance, who had made comedy weep; Beaumarchais, who had 
taken it on to political ground ; Marivaux, the comic poet of the ruelles and the 
boudoirs ; these passed — comedy had become silent like all the rest. Inventors 
were contented with imitating masters. The Emperor Napoleon did not en- 
courage this method of speaking to the crowd, and of saying very often, by 
means of a representation, severe truths which the audience alone discovers, and 
which escape all the sagacity of the censors. Then came M. Scribe. He had 
all the wit and all the invention necessary for the new enterprise ; he at once 
understood, that he could not carry his comedy back into former times, and yet 
that he could not leave it among the people. He therefore chose an interme- 
diate world, a neutral ground, the Chaussee d'Antin and finance ; for, after all, 
everybody stands a chance of one day becoming as rich as M. Rothschild ; the 
marquis of ancient date, and the grocer of despised family, may make their fortune 
in four-and- twenty hours ; so that each could say, while beholding this new do- 
minion of comedy, " I shall perhaps enter there some day !" Placed on this rich 
territory, of which he was the Christopher Columbus, M. Scribe gave himself up 
at his ease to this paradox, which has suited his purpose admirably. The sim- 



M. SCRIBK MODKRN COMEDIES THE PORTE ST. MARTIN. 99 

pie secret of his success has coiiustiiJ in ta'd:i2: exactly the opposite of the com- 
edies written before him. There was a comedy of Voltaire's, called Nanine. 
Tiiis Nanine, a girl of no birth, marries a £;reat lord and is happy ; M. Scribe 
takes in hand the defence of the opposite opinion, and writes the Maridge de 
Raison, to prove that the son of a o;eiieral would be very foolish to marry the 
daughter of a soldier. In the Preiiiieres Amours, M. Scribe ridicules all the 
fine, sweet sentiments of youth, with which so many pretty comedies have been 
composed. The Demoiselle a Marier is never so charming, as when slie has no 
thought of marriiije. Le plus beau jour de la Vie is full of torments and mis- 
eries. And it is always thus ; when he has a comedy to write, this original man 
takes up the side of long-established truth. In case of need, he would under- 
take to defend, not the misanthrope, which Fabre d'Eglantine has done before 
hiiTi, but even the Tartufe. Thanks to this ingenious subversion of the action, 
the story, and the persons of his comedy, M. Scribe has discovered the art of 
making his audience attentive. And as besides, he writes quite simply, without 
knowing how to write ; as his di dogues are full of ordinary genius ; as with all 
his wit, he is not more witty than the rest of the world ; tJie most complete 
success has attended this happy man ; he has at once attained that popularity 
which is least contested and least contestable in France — he has been at the 
same time, celebrated and rich. The Dutchess de Berri adopted him as her 
poet, and the Gymnase sustained by clever comedians, made expressly for this 
comedy, finished by replacing the Theatre Francais. The success of M. Scribe 
lasied as long as the restoration. But the revolution of July came ; immediately 
the Theatre de Madame was nothing more than the Gymnase Dramafique. 
The box in which the amiable princess so often appeared, that royal box into 
which it was a great honor to be admitted, was empty. Then M. Scribe, faith- 
less as the bird whose nest is destroyed, took his flight elsewhere. The Theatre 
Francais, which he had so roughly opposed, eagerly opened its doors to the 
CalJeron of 1830. Then M. Scribe composed vaudevilles in five acts, and 
without couplets, which the Theatre Francais calls comedies. At the same 
time, the Opera and the Opera Comique secured the illustrious inventor; Mey- 
erbeer and Auber would have no poems but his ; to the latter he gave Robert 
-,e Diable, to the former the Domino Noir. As for the Gymnase, when it found 
itself left to its own strength, it dispensed most easily with its poet. The spirit 
of the master had remained everywhere, within the walls, and on the outside 
of the walls. Bouffe, that excellent comedian, who had never been in the 
school of M. Scribe, set himself seriously to work, to play comedies which 
were almost serious. Thus, every one went on — the Gymnase without M. 
Scribe, M. Scribe without the Gymnase — only, as it is not right that every- 
thing should succeed with ungrateful men, M. Scribe was obliged to enter 
the French Academy, where he pronounced a discourse in M. de Buffon's 
style. Thus was her royal highness the Dutchess de Berri avenged ! Assuredly, 
M. Scribe would not be in the Academy, if his first protectress was not at Goritz. 
You have stdl in the same line, several other theatres, which I have forgotten, 
just as I forgot the Opera Comique ; for instance, the Forte Saint Martin, a 
theatre which still remembers Frederick Lemaitre and Madame Dorval. There 
were produced, in all their first fervor, the romantic Melpomena, the modern 
drama, the burlesques upon Shakspere; there, were worn many a silk dress, many 
a good lance of Toledo, many a gauntlet, and many a suit of armor. There were 
played, almost at the same time, the Auber ge des Adrets, a drama in which theft 
and assassination become the subject of the most delightful pleasantry, and the 
Faust of Goethe ! There, have appeared rope-dancers, Bayaderes, Hercules, 
and learned animals. There, the monkey Jocko was seen, and all Paris melted 
into tears at the misfortunes and death of poor Jocko ; in this same theatre was 
exhibited the elephant Kionny, whose pretty tricks and good manners were quite 
the fashion ; then nameless crimes, the life of Napoleon the Great, ballets, vaude- 
villes, the bagnio, the scaffold, the whole of the Middle Age, M. Alexandre Du- 
mas, and M. Victor Hugo And all this trouble and care, all these par- 
adoxes and murders, to centre in a little theatre, where people no longer eat any- 
thing but strawberries and cream, and nothing is acted but the pastorals and the 
idyls of the Chevalier de Florian ! 



100 DIFFERENT CLASSES OF SOCIETY — THE PRISON OF LA FORCE. 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

DIFFERENT CLASSES OF SOCIETY. 

We told you, then, that after passing the Gymnase and the boulevard Pois- 
soniere, we no longer found the same appearances, the same literature, or the 
same people. In this country of equality, nothing is blended ; each is in its 
place, everything in its station. Each step you take, seems to carry you into 
new regions. I know not what presentiment warns you of this change, but so it 
is. Already on this same line of the boulevards, the population is altered. The 
helmet, the blouse, the apron, and the round cap, which dare not make their 
appearance five hundred steps higher, have taken up their abode in these lati- 
tudes. Above, you were with the aristocrats, here you are among the people. 
The people do not inhabit these boulevards, but they live and reign here, they 
expend all their money and their wit here ; in this spot the fete is complete, and 
our good people have nothing more to wish. Ambulatory kitchens offer them 
at any hour, the dishes they prefer to all others, fried potatoes and salt pork ; 
while barley-water sellers constantly invite them, with the harmonious sound of 
their little bells. For their evening's amusement, they have the low theatres, 
where dramas are acted, which, as far as I know, can not be too much loaded 
with events, accidents, sudden changes of fortune, revolutions, deaths, births, 
terrors, and convulsions of every kind, to please the taste of their habitual spec- 
tators. I could tell you of a certain play applauded for a whole year, on this 
part of the boulevard, which is emphatically called the boulevard of crime ; but 
we must acquaint you with the mischief done to these feeble minds, by the lam- 
entable spectacle of all the vices, all the paradoxes, and all the bad passions, 
which the theatre summons to its aid. 

I have visited one of the most frightful prisons in Paris, called La Force. 
This prison was formerly the hotel of the dukes de la Force, a noble and illus- 
trious house, much fallen, as you may see, and stripped of its ancient grandeur. 
Within these walls, have dwelt the greatest lords of French history. At that 
time, all was joy, pleasure, in treacherous prosperity around these famous noble- 
men; love, ambition, poetry, painting, and music, all the fine arts, were eager to 
attend their proud masters. Now, this palace of opulence and grandeur is 
nothing but a dirty abyss, filled with darkness, confusion, and grinding of teeth. 
It is no longer a house built for men ; it is an iron cage made expressly for wild 
beasts. Shut up within these formidable walls, the prisoners are seen variously 
occupied ; this one is lying with his face on the ground, meditating theft and 
murder ; that one, in a feverish agitation, turns and returns incessantly in his 
melancholy enclosure, as if he sought a chink through which to escape. A third 
roars with laughter, while clenching his fists with the convulsion of rage. All 
the ferocious desires of the tiger, you will find without trouble, in these terrible 
figures ; but these vilest of criminals have never known remorse, and that is why 
I hesitate to call them men. 

But what is most melancholy in this sad place, is to see, in the side jail — not 
men, not even young men — but mere children. Unhappy beings ! they were 
early brought to this abyss ; some from an imitation of parental example ; others, 
because they have never known a mother's kiss ; the largest number from hav- 
ing at an early age frequented these immoral shops, where comedy and melo- 
drama sell, for the lowest possible sum, their lessons of infamy and vice. One 
of the managers of the prison, a grave man, with much of that serious good 
sense which is acquired by the contemplation of so much misery, said to us, " 1 
am thankful to say, I have nothmg to do with poetry or the theatre ; I never saw 
a melo-drama played twice in my life ; I do not know the name of a single actor 
or actress. For twenty years I have been shut up in these walls, myself more 
a prisoner than all the prisoners committed to my care ; but nevertheless I know, 
as well as those who take the greatest interest in the matter, all the faults and 
crimes that are represented by any piece which has a great run at the theatre. 
Every time that these unhappy children arrive here in unusual numbers, I say 



JUVENILE DELINQUENTS BAD EFFECT OF MODERN PLATS. 101 

10 myself — assuredly they have just been extolling some great crime ; and T am 
never mistaken. For instance, since our men of genius have begun to give to 
the greatest villains, wit, grace, gayety, good manners, all the appearance of well- 
educated men — every day there come to me fine little gentlemen in black coats, 
whose cravat is most carefully tied, who wear hair-rings, write love-verses upon 
the walls, and talk of their good fortune just in the same way as the Duke de 
Caumont de la Force, whose hotel they now inhabit, would have talked in former 
days. Or else, the actors amuse themselves, in their theatres, by exalting beg- 
gars ; they laugh at the frightful holes and sanguinary spots of their cloaks ; they 
strut about insolently, in the garb of galley-slaves. And this is why my young 
bandits, hardly released a first time, return to me, covered with rags and wounds. 
When they first came here, they made verses ; on their second appearance, they 
talk the vilest cant that ever was invented in their cellars by the gypsies, the ban- 
ditti, the lepers, the hypocrites, and all the frightful inhabitants of the Cour des 
Miracles. This cant is such a beautiful language, such an exquisite mixtiire of 
vice and vulgarity ! Thus the v/its of the time have made it fashionable. They 
have revealed all its mysteries, they have found out its dialect, its chronology, 
its dictionary, and its grammar, as they did formerly for the poetry of Charles 
d'Orleans, or King Rene. But, sir, what a misfortune that so superior a mind 
as M. Victor Hugo's, for instance, has not understood all the danger of such 
sophistry ! Thanks to him, and thanks to Vidocq — for, to be just, Vidocq be- 
gan before M. Hugo — the cant which thieves scarcely dared to whisper in their 
most profound darkness, is now become quite the thing in the fashionable world. 
There is no well-educated girl, in a good school, who does not pride herself 
upon knowing some words of it. There is no young man of good family who 
has not some acquaintance with it. In all the books of our fashionable writers, 
does not this cant find a place ? In all the plays, is not the principal conversa- 
tion carried on in this language ? People no longer murder on the highway, 
but on fait suer le chene, sous le grande trimart. It is no longer blood that is 
spilt, but raisine. To speak is to agiter le chiffon rouge. The guillotine is the 
Vahhaye de monte-d-regret. The passion for this frightful neologism has been 
pushed to such an extent, that the songs composed by these characters for the 
women they love, are sought out from the prisons, and these songs are sung in 
the best parts of the city. What a strange pleasure, thus to love to approach 
the most vulgar thoughts and imaginations I What a strange passion for well- 
bred people, who would not for any money drink out of the saucer of a galley- 
slave, or share his bread, to adopt without shame the vilest productions of his 
mind, and the most frightful dreams of his heart ! I acknowledge, sir, that all 
this makes me indignant. But what can we do, except to hold ourselves always 
ready to receive the thieves and assassins who are made such by these literary 
excesses. Do not think, however, that gray as I am growing, I am hardened 
against this misery. No, certainly not. Let the bandits of forty years old come 
to the prison of La Force, as to the ante-chamber of the scaffold, or the galleys 
— it matters little to me ; they are hardened men, with whom nothing can be 
done, hearts of iron, which can not even be broken. But, to see enter, criminals 
of fifteen years old, thieves who have not arrived at years of discretion, children 
upon whom the whip ought to do justice, to ask them, as they enter, ' Where 
do you come from ?' and to hear them reply, ' I come from seeing men murder, 
stab, and steal, in the open theatre,' — this, sir, is a misery to which I can not ac- 
custom myself, old and steeled against it as I am." 

The speech of this good man has appeared to me the best literary dissertation 
that could possibly be made, upon the dramatic art, as it- now exists among the 
French. There is no man of letters who has not read with a smile of pity the 
remarks of Voltaire against Shakspere, and the tragedy written by him for the 
Welsh. But what would Voltaire say, if he could know what they have made 
of Romeo, Juliet, Othello, Coi'nelia, King Lear, and all the charming or terrible 
beings created by the genius of this man? But we have stopped long enough 
upon this plague-spot of France, who yet reproaches England with her cock- 
fights, and Spain with her bull-baitings ! 



102 NEW WONDERS IN PARIS THE REGRATTEUR. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

NEW WONDERS IN PARIS. 

"We have spoken enough of the theatre ; we will pursue our road. Let us 
leave the kitchens in the open air, the wandering melodies, the sellers of oranges 
or crumpets, M. Coupe Toujours, for instance. Let us plunge into the desert; 
and now tell me, by what endless succession of little resources, mysteries, and 
labors, these lazzaroni can manage, without working, without giving them- 
selves much trouble, or much uneasiness, to procure their bread of every day, 
and their theatre of every evening. This is one of the greatest wonders of the 
Parisian world, how is it that a man can, with very little work, be rich enough 
to want none of the necessaries of life, and to live in idleness and pleasure. 

To this question, my Parisian host, who had been more than once, the kind 
companion of my poetical wanderings, answered with his usual goodness — You 
have asked me a question, which has occupied more than one statesman. A 
man ought to be a thorough Parisian, to resolve it properly ; but when that 
question is once resolved, you will understand a number of little facts, quite un- 
appreciated by the great travellers, who look only at a country, as a whole, without 
deigning to examine into details ; for it is, above all, by details, that you can 
compare, and judge, and better yet, that you can understand. The fact is, added 
my companion, that Paris is the only city in the world, where you meet at every 
step a crowd of inoffensive little trades, which are subject to no patent law, to no 
control, and which secure to the man who pursues them, an honest livelihood 
for the remainder of his days. These trades you meet everywhere, in this great 
city. 

In leaving your house, you necessarily pass before the porter's lodge. This 
lodge is a sort of niche on the ground floor, in which very often you would not 
put your dog. Imagine a space of seven or eight feet at most, in which very 
frequently, resides a whole family : the father making shoes, the mother reading 
romances ; the daughter spouting verses, the hope of the Theatre Francais : 
the eldest son, playing on the violin ; tlie youngest, mixing the colors of Eugene 
Delacroix. But do you know where all these children nestle ? how they came 
into the world ? how they have grown ? how they have lived ? Who knows ] 
who can tell ? — the fact is, they do live and grow up in a wonderful way. How- 
ever, cross the threshold of your door, and take care of that man who is groping 
in the kennel ; he is a regratteur ; he scrapes and scratches among the stones ; 
he will have nothing to do with the rags or the dirt of the street, these are articles 
of merchandise quite above our trafficker. He wants nothing but the nails lost 
from the horses' shoes, the small pieces of iron rubbed off the wheels by friction ; 
he washes the mud of the city, as other slaves wash the golden sand of Mexico. 

When you have avoided the regratteur, and the water which he throws on either 
side, you generally stumble upon the commissioner of the quarter. The com- 
missioner of the quarter is usually a good, portly man, with a broad chest, large 
shoulders, and black beard ; you are sure, from his very looks, that he is a man 
at ease, who owes nothing to any one, but to whom much is owing, and who is 
not without a fund in reserve for bad days : he is servant to us all, he belongs 
to all the houses, and goes in and out, at pleasure. 

He is the faithful and worthy depository of more than one little secret, for 
which he might be paid a good price, but he never sells the secrets of any one. 
For the rest, he is as independent as a servant who belongs to several masters; 
active, indefatigable, sober, patient, curious, but curious only for his own amuse- 
ment; alwEiys at your service, always ready to oblige, and that, with the same 
zeal, whether on affairs of love or business. No street in Paris would be com- 
plete, without its commissioner to itself, by the side of its grocer and its wineseller. 

Farther off, on the Pont Neuf, on the Quai de la Greve, outside wandering 
or stationary shops, without patent, but not without approbation, you will meet 
a crowd of industrious people, always occupied, who cross each other in every 



THE COMMISSIONER OF THE QUARTER LOVE LETTERS. 103 

sense, but without confusion ; — one, leaning upon his stall of a square foot, 
solicits the favor of restoring for a sou its lustre to your tarnished boots ; another, 
calls your shaggy dog with a hoarse voice, wishing to crop hira; this one sup- 
plies you with matches, that one with pins, and that old man gains his living by 
selling barley sugar. But do not fancy, that this kind of industry is within the 
reach of men, in all parts of the world ; it is only fitted for the Parisian ; it is 
only he who understands, and loves, and knows how to appreciate at their just 
value, all these little accommodations. It is only a Parisian, who, impelled by 
the thirst of a warm summer's day, stops the honest seller of cocoas, who chats 
with him while wiping his plated mug, who has it filled to the very brim, and 
asks the change from his ten centim.es, after having drank and talked to the value 
of at least two sous. And just in the same way, the Parisian is the only person 
to talk with a fishwoman, play the agreeable with an oyster-seller, and not pro- 
voke an ambulatory cook, while cheapening his meal. You should never ridicule 
little trades; thanks to them, the Parisian has remained the sole master of his 
native city. Little trades sell him at a cheap rate the fine clothes, and furniture 
of the rich ; gather for him, roses in summer, violets in spring, and apples for 
winter; they put him on a level with all fortunes; they give him the means of 
satisfying all his desires ; it is to them, that the Parisian owes his prosperity, his 
house, his servants, and his carriage. Lately, these httle trades have given to 
each Parisian, a large carriage with two or three horses, always at his orders, 
always ready to take him to the various parts of the city. Careless and idle man! 
To please the Parisian, the omnibus conductor wears a livery, and the coachman 
takes every possible care of his vehicle. Does he not carry the greatest of all 
the great lords in Europe, the Parisian of Paris? 

In Paris, thanks to little trades, there is nothing without two extreme prices, 
the dear and the cheap ; there is no medium. Look at the Opera, which is so 
expensive ; but for a franc, in the Rue Vivienne, an excellent orchestra will play 
you, during four hours, the most beautiful symphonies of Beethoven, the sweetest 
melodies of Mozart. And not only do little trades apply to the necessities of 
life, and to those luxurious wants which have become a necessity, but they also 
take up the strongest and most unexpected caprices, of the character and mind 
of man. For instance, Catherine wishes to write to her good friend, John, who 
is with the army at Algiers; Catherine can not write, but for four sous, she 
will send Charles John a letter, full of the best chosen words and the sweetest 
hopes, on fine glazed paper with an armorial seal ; two sous more, fair Catherine, 
and you could have written to your lover, in good Alexandrine verses. 

What a trade is that of M. Fumade, the dealer in phosphoric matches I that 
of M. Hunt, the manufacturer of blacking ! or M. Coupe Tou jours, the cake- 
seller, who prizes his stall of two square feet, as highly as a notary does his study. 
The man who gives holy water at the church, thinks as much of himself as 
though he were a peer of France. On the portal of a church, you will find more 
than one beggar, who is an elector in his own quarter ; the chair-letter has seve- 
ral times lent the vicar twenty crowns, to buy a new cassock. Everything is a 
trade in Paris ; it is a trade to open the door of the can-iages, after the play is 
over; it is a trade to mend the piano broken by the little girl who has just left 
school ; it is a trade to serve as a witness at the Palais de Justice, to carry water, 
to manufacture tooth-picks, and paper collars. What do you want ? what is the 
fancy which has seized you? Do you wish a rose for your button-hole? they 
will sell you a single rose. In the season, you will find violets for a sous, on the 
Pont des Arts. Follow me along the quay, and you may have a thick volume 
in octavo, for the price often bunches of violets. 

Even usury, infamous usury, has made itself a little trade, to rob the unfortu- 
nate more easily. Usury dresses itself in an old cassock, and takes the form of 
a grocer, near the markets ; it lends six francs, to receive six francs five centimes 
at the end of the day. 

And this, my dear sir, is the way people live in Paris ; when a man has not a 
great trade, he lives by a small one ; the only important thing is to exercise a 
little trade, whatever it may be, with honor and good faith. 



104 THE PLACE ROTALE — ITS FORMER INHABITANTS. 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE PLACE ROYALE. 

We were at this point of our conversation, when my guide, turning abruptly, 
changed at once the direction of my road and my ideas. " But," said I, "where 
are we going ? why this sudden turn ? Did you not intend to talie me to the end 
of this immense avenue ? I would fain know the whole history of the Boule- 
vards ; I have already traversed a great part of them, I have seen their solitudes 
and their thickly-populated corners, their rjches and their misery, their hungry 
inhabitants, and those who are rolling in luxury. I intended this evening to stop 
upon the former site of the Bastille : do you see anything to prevent this plan V 
— "We will return there presently," said my guide, " but I have too high an 
opinion of you, to believe that you will not wish to examine one of the most cu- 
rious spots in the Paris of former days. The Place Royale is close by, and we 
must not pass without seeing it." So saying, we entered this vast space of old 
and noble houses, which you would take for one single palace, the' walls of 
which surround the garden. In this garden rises, as in its rightful kingdom, the 
equestrian statue of Louis XIII., son of Henry the Great, and father of Louis 
the Great. Within these walls, have lived and thought, the rarest minds, the 
finest geniuses, the most delightful raillers, the most elegant gentlemen, of that 
singular epoch which preceded so closely — as if to announce it — the seventeenth 
French century. The Place Royale, where nothing is now heard except the 
beautiful, little children of M. Victor Hugo, the poet, still remembers with love, 
and pride, and gratitude, that it was formerly inhabited, or at least traversed, by 
those great names before which every one bows : Larochefaucauld, Mademoi- 
selle de Lafayette, the Dutchess de Lesdiguieres, the Prince de Conde, Moliere, 
St. Vincent de Paule, La Fontaine, the Duke de Montausier, M. de Thou, and 
M. de St. Marc. What a strange drama has passed within this enclosure ! 
what an incredible heap of papers and proper names ! Here came Marion De- 
lorme, who was sick of love, and Ninon de I'Enclos, the sweetest child of Epi- 
curus, and Chapelle, and Bachaumont, and Mademoiselle Delaunay, and Made- 
moiselle Polallion, Madame de Montausier, Madame de Gondran, Madame de 
Vervins, Marshal Desfiat, Father Joseph, Cardinal de Richelieu, Marshal de 
Biron, Marshal de Roquelaire, the Marquis de Pisani, the Duke de Bellegarde, 
the Baron de Thermos, the Princess de Conti, the poet Desportes, the Duke de 
Joyeuse, who was a great patron of clever men. Cardinal Duperron, the friend 
of Desportes, the archbishop of Sens, the duke of Sully, Mademoiselle and 
M. de Senectere — the former beautiful and finely proportioned, who knew every- 
thing that was going on, and who was almost a woman of letters — and her brother 
Senectere, the spy of Richelieu, the friend of Mazarin ; Marshal de la Force, at 
whose hotel we were, a short time since : on St. Bartholomew's day, he was left 
among the dead. He was a great friend of Henry IV., and but little of a cour- 
tier ; and was eighty-nine when he wished to be married for the fourth time, 
alleging that being no longer able to hunt, it was impossible for him to live alone 
in the country: Francois Malherbe, the pensioner of Catherine de Medicis ; the 
Viscountess d'Orchies ; M. des Yvetots, who delighted in dressing in the most 
extraordinary way ; and M. de Guise, the son of Balafre. Here was the Con- 
stable de Luynes, the assassin and the successor of Marshal d'Ancre ; Marshal 
d'Estrees, the vvorthy brother of his six sisters ; President de Chevry, Monsieur 
de Sully's jester ; iVlonsieur d'Aumont, the visionary, who was so welcome at 
the hotel R'ambouillet ; Madame de Reniez ; her daughter, Madame de Gironde ; 
and Monsieur de Turin, that inflexible magistrate. King Henry said to him 
one day, " Monsieur de Turin, I wish M. de Bouillon to gain his action." — 
" Sire," answered the worthy man, " nothing is easier ; I will send the action to 
you, and you shall judge it yourself." Thus spoke my companion ; and seeing 
that I was astonished at this great number of names, "Ah," said he, " since we 
are in the Place Royale, you must pardon my returning to the great names of 
former days. I delight in going back to the history of a society which no longer 



BOIS ROBERT THE MARCHIONESS DE RAMBOUILLET. 105 

exists." Never, indeed, at any epoch, have there been found more important 
characters : the Chancellor de Bellievre, who never was angry ; Madame de 
Puysieux, who sang before Cardinal Richelieu all kinds of pretty songs, which 
made him laugh immoderately ; the princess of Orange, and the Duke de May- 
enne. Who else ? Madame d'Aiguillon, the cardinal's niece, who was so ava- 
ricious ; Marshal de Breze, who obeyed his servant ; Marshal de la Meilleraie, a 
great besieger of cities ; and King Louis XIIL, of whom we will not speak. 
You have, at the same time, the duke of Montmorency, a liberal, excellent 
man, quite ignorant of war : what a cruel death overtook him ! Do not forget 
Beautru, one of the fine spirits of the time ; he was bold, insolent, a great 
player, a thorough libertine, and an outrageous slanderer, but loved by Cardinal 
Richelieu for his boldness. ■ 

Silence ! Do you not hear the sound of the violin ? — it is Maugard, the cardi- 
nal's violin-player. This Maugard was a clever fellow, full of invention and 
witty tricks, and, in spite of his poverty, as proud as though he had been a rich 
poet. Does there not seem a pastoral air around you ? the meadows are before 
you, the bleating lambs call their mothers ; it is Racan singing his idyls ; picture 
to yourself a gentleman shepherd — he was the worthy disciple of Malherbe, and 
really a man of genius, but very absent. The day he was received into the 
academy, he made his appearance with a paper which his dog had torn. " This," 
said he, " is my speech. I can not recopy it, and I do not know it by 
heart." 

Then there is La Fontaine, the greatest poet in France. But we will not 
speak of him ; he only passed under the shadoAv of the Place Royale, it was too 
full of affected women and red heels ; he wanted more solitude and silence. 
Neither must we forget Bois Robert, one of the kings of the Place Royale, who 
very soon learned to fawn upon the cardinal. He was a buffoon, but he amused 
his master ; we will, however, do him this justice : Bois Robert never injured 
any one : he consoled the afflicted, and visited more than one who was in the 
Bastille. When once he had taken you under his protection, you were well 
off; he had the courage never possessed by flatterers ; to serve you, he would dare 
to displease the master : and besides this, buffoon as he was, he was the founder 
of the French Academy. 

"You find me long in my stories," said my companion, "but when in this 
frivolous Paris, we happen to find ourselves in the centre of an illustrious place, 
through which the best society in the world has passed, why should we neglect 
to recall so many happy remembrances ? Why, since we are in the Place Roy- 
ale, should we not speak of the Marquis and Marchioness de Rambouillet ?" 
They certainly played an important part in the world of former days. Before 
their time, every citizen's house was built thus : first, a great staircase ; on one 
side of the staircase a parlor, and on the other side a bedroom. The marchion- 
ess was the first to change the position of the staircase, so as to have a long suc- 
cession of saloons ; she made the doors and windows as much larger as possible, 
placing them, for the first time, opposite each other. To this house repaired 
all the choice minds of the court and the city. Then was founded that great 
power called causerie. The Marchioness de Rambouillet was young and beau- 
tiful, she had a clear mind, lively conversation, and could amuse her friends ex- 
ceedingly well. Moliere, it is true, in a fit of ill humor, denounced the wit of 
the affected ladies ; but whatever might be the rapture of Cathos, of Madelon, 
and of Mascarille, it can not be denied that the French language, then scarcely 
commenced, gained much in grace from being spoken by the best society. 
This lady was truly one of the first to give the signal for the great age ; besides, 
she was the mother of Madame de Montausier, that clever woman, who wrote 
so many good pages under the name of Voiture. To her belonged that beau- 
tiful book called " La Guirlande de Julie," which the Dutchess d'Uzes, her 
granddaughter, bought at such an enormous sum. Neither must we forget 
Madame d'Hyeres, so amiable in her folly ; the sister of Madame de Montausier, 
Mademoiselle de Rambouillet ; and Mademoiselle Paulet, who played the lute 
better than any one, and with whom the Chevalier de Guise was so desperately 
in love. It is a singular fact, and one not generally known, that Mademoiselle 



106 , CELEBRATED PERSONS MADAME DE LONGUEVILLE 

Paulet, elegant, pretty, a good musician, a genius, courageous, and proud, was 
the first person in France who was called a lioness. Now, the title of lioness is 
an honorable one ; a woman who is not a honess thinks herself disgraced. Mad- 
emoiselle Paulet was not so proud, and was very angry with Voiture, but the 
name still clung to her. 

Voiture was the son of a wine-seller, a genius, fond of love and play, but pre- 
ferring the latter to the former. He treated the greatest lords with the most ex- 
traordinary freedom and want of ceremony. It was he who said — on hearing 
Bossuet, at fourteen years old, preach his first sermon at the Hotel de Rambouil- 
let, a quarter of an hour before midnight — " I never heard a person preach so 
early or so late." Here also came, full of pride and learning. President Jean- 
nin, who dared to defend Laon against Henry IV. After the peace, Henry IV; 
wished to attach him to himself, saying, that if he had so faithfully served a little 
prince, he was equally capable of serving a great king. One day, when the queen- 
mother sent him a large sura of money, the president returned it to her, saying 
that a regent could dispose of nothing, while her son was a minor. But the 
further we go, the more these men of past days appear before us. M. Gombaut, 
the bishop of Venice, M. Gombaut the poet, whom Madame de Rambouillet 
used to call the " handsome gloomy being." His greatest annoyance was for 
people to know his poverty, and his friends therefore used to make him believe 
that the money they gave him was sent to him by the king. Gombaut had all the 
penury and all the pride of a poet. Chapelain was quite the contrary ; he was 
the most extolled, the richest, and the worst-dressed of all the wits of the day. 
How satire attacked this poor man ! There was also at that time the queen of 
Poland, poor queen ! and the Dutchess de Croix, the daughter of Madame 
d'Urfe. Make room ! luake room! here is Marshal de Bassompierre,'the great- 
est genius at court. The queen forgives him all his folly. Cardinal de Roche- 
faucauld and Chancellor Seguier shake hands, while Jodelet begins to sell beards 
for the parliament of Metz, which has just been composed of young men. My 
ladies Rohan will to-day pay a visit to Madame de la Maisonfort. Dumoustier, 
the draughtsman, loses his time in telling stories. President Le Coigneux runs 
after all the beautiful women. M. d'Emery, the financier, the friend of Ma- 
rion Delorme, who gained nine millions in ten years. Marion, proud and 
extravagant, died at thirty-nine years of age, leaving twenty thousand crowns 
worth of lace, and not a sou in ready money. He who passes yonder is Pascal ; 
this man, to whom men bow so low, is Marshal de I'Hopital. You would 
have liked the Countess de La Suze, who wrote such sweet verses and such 
touching elegies ; the pretty Madame de Liancourt, a model for mothers ; Pres- 
ident Nicolai, whose youth was so stormy ; and Father Bourdaloue and Father 
Massillon. And what would you say of Madame Pillon, who was sincerity it- 
self — a simple citess, who for her wit and piquant sallies was equally dreaded in 
the city and at court ? And Madame de Moutan, whose hands were as beauti- 
ful as the queen's ; and Madame d'Ayvait, so passionate that she was very near 
stabbing her daughter. And among the clever men, M. Costar. One day, 
Madame de Longueville was passing through this same Place Royale ; her chair 
broke, and a footman presented himself to assist the dutchess. "Whose ser- 
vant are you ?" said she. " M. Costar's, madame." — " And who is this M. Cos- 
tar ?" — "A genius, madame." — "Who says so ?" — " If you do not believe me, 
madame, take the trouble of asking M. Voiture." — " Like mastei', like man," 
said the dutchess, seeing this footman so noble and so well bred. 

Then think, sir, that among these men whom the Marais recalls to us, we must 
reckon Cardinal de Retz and Menage; M. de Roquelaure, and Madame de la 
Roche-Guyon sung by Benserade, and La Serre and La Calprenede. But 
alas ! we must finish. You can not understand the mighty power of one single 
woman — Madame de Cornuel, for instance. She was wit personified. She said 
of religion, at that time, that it " was not dying, but only declining." In point 
of wit you have Scarron, and Madame Scarron, and Mademoiselle Scuderi, 
and Mademoiselle de Stael. But we must finish. We must not, however, quit 
this little cornel', where so much grace, and wit, and love, have been lavished, 
without saluting with our looks and our regret, the Hotel Carnavalete. From 



NEW HOUSES IN PARIS BI. BEAUMARCHAIS. 107 

this now deserted home, formerly proceeded the most beautiful language France 
ever spoke, that of Madame de Sevigne. 

Such was the history of the Place Royal, the history of the Paris of foniier 
days. I acknowledge, that this way of invoking the phantoms of so many peo- 
ple, the honor of French literature and society, appeared to me singular and 
interesting. We only came here for architectural details, and we have found a 
whole history ; this is a double profit. Besides, it is time to call up these re- 
membrances. The quarter of the Marais, after having been the centre of the 
city, is now only a faubourg. Demolishers take possession of these beautiful 
hotels, and break them with hatchets and axes. There is, near the Temple, a 
whole street, the Rue Chapon, where you may buy retail, tire most ancient 
houses of the oldest quarters, from the stones of their foundations to the slates 
which cover the roof. All is sold, the floors, the hangiqgs, the glasses, the 
mantlepieces, the slightest ornaments in wood or stone. Thus have disappeared 
one after the other, nearly all the best houses of the sixteenth century. This 
done, the architect comes, .and in place of these rich hotels, builds an immense 
house, in which assemble all sorts of people, who never met even in the street, 
and who by the power of neighborhood, are condemned to live and die, in such 
numbers under the same roof But what does that signify, provided appear- 
ances are saved ? 

We again returned to the boulevards, a little lower down than the spot from 
which we diverged, and found ourselves almost opposite the church of Saint 
Louis. Here again the boulevard changed its appearance : the crowd was less 
eager, the theatres disappeared altogether; on our left, was a vast open space ; 
and yet on this spot, the impetuous Beaumarchais erected a house for himself, 
a splendid house, surrounded by magnificent gardens. How strange ! that the 
author of the Manage du Figaro should build his house on the site of the Bas- 
tille I the Bastille which suddenly staggers like a tipsy man, while a writer of 
pamphlets proudly comes to plant his tent in this formidable place. 

These are strong contrasts. So much power and strength, walls so thick, 
cannon, dungeons the very name of which is enough to make you shudder with 
fright ; bridges, battlements, keepers, horrible labyrinths, crossed and recrossed 
by a hundred thousand little dark windings, the wooden cage placed there by 
Louis XL ; terrible stones, before which the proudest heads bow — all these fell 
in one day. On the morrow, a simple writer, a comedy-maker, an active, witty, and 
ostentatious talker, came to choose some of the beautiful stones, from all this 
rubbish, to build for himself a real palace : upon this site of tears, and captivi- 
ties, and misery, M. Beaumarchais laid out gardens, dug grottoes, planted trees ; 
gold, painting, sculpture, all the fine arts vied with each other, in adorning this 
magnificent dwelling. Unfortunately, the house of the poet has been taken 
away, as well as the Bastille. Of this beautiful edifice, where so much wit, 
laughter, and money, were expended, not a trace remains. A canal has been 
dug across the delightful gardens ; industry has done for Beaumai'chais's house, 
what the revolution did for the Bastille. Industry also breaks, changes, demol- 
ishes, and overthrows. What an exquisite house has she here ruined ! what 
ceilings has she demolished ! what vases, what pannels, what glasses, what col- 
umns ! 

At this word columns, I began to smile. My companion asked what amused 
me ? Then I repeated to him a story, which 1 had heard on the passage from 
New York to Havre. You know that in such a voyage, people are not very 
particular about their stories, but readily amuse themselves with all they hear. 
If an hour can be whiled away by the adventure, it is welcome. The person 
who gave me the following account, was the architect of the Opera Comique, a 
well-read judiciotis man, who loves architecture with an intense passion. Apro- 
pos of the French mania for building Grecian temples, raising columns, and 
imitating the public places of Athens, without considering either the clouds, or 
the rain, or the fog, or the gray dark sky of the people of the north, the amia- 
ble artist had invented the story, which you will find in the following chapter. 



108 THE ENGLISHMAN IN A DILEMMA — HE FINDS A FRIEND. 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE englishman's VISIT TO PARIS. 

A YOUNGER brother of Lord S , the honest and learned vicar of a village 

near London, had taken leave of his people, to pay a visit to Paris, the city of 
wonders, as it was called there. This Englishman, though very learned, was a 
man of exquisite taste, but somewhat absent in mind. For a long time, he had 
had a great wish to see, and to perambulate, and to study the great capital. At 
last he arrived in Paris, on one of those clear summer nights, which have al- 
most the transparency of day. After having walked our streets for some time, 
followed by a man carrying his baggage, he ordered his guide to take him to a 
good hotel. Led by him to a comfortable house, our Englishman passed the 
night ; but what strange dreams appeared before his eyes ! He did not rouse 
himself till ten o'clock in the morning, so badly had he slept. He then dressed 
himself in haste, fearing lest Paris had taken flight, and went out without know- 
ing the name of the street, or of the hotel where he had passed the night. His 
emotion was so great, his curiosity so strongly excited, that he walked for a long 
time, to the right, to the left, before him, through a thousand streets great and 
small, through a thousand passages and a thousand turnings ; he went and came, 
he returned, he passed bridges, he. stopped, he admired, he was astonished; in 
a word, he wandered so far and so long, that at the end of three good hours' 
walking, he was far from his hotel, lost — thoroughly lost, without any means of 
recovering himself. What should he do ? 

Happily, this worthy William S was a man of much composure, which 

did not forsake him, even on this, his first day of enthusiasm and wandering. 
As soon as he perceived that he had really lost himself in this great city, he be- 
gan to reflect on the best means of discovering this street, of the name of which 
he was in perfect ignorance, and this hotel which he might be said to have 
scarcely seen, except at night. Remember, that in this hotel he had left his 
clothes. What do I say ? his clothes I he had left his name and passport. His 
name and passport ? he had left his personal liberty. His personal liberty ? he 
had left better than that, he had left his purse. It was a grave and pressing 
emergency. 

To tell the truth, the first moment of confusion and embarrassment was most 
painful. But our hero was not discouraged. He waited where he was, till 
chance shonld bring him some worthy, honest Frenchman — honest enough to 
encourage him, acute enough to give him good counsel. Just then, chance, 
which is not always an enemy, sent that way a kind, clever young man, who had 
studied architecture at Rome, and who after having built upon paper at the 
school, I know not how many temples, studies, theatres, amphitheatres, baths, 
aqueducts, porticoes, lyceums, parthenons, pantheons, etc., etc., thought himself 
only too happy, to have chimneys to repair, and houses to replaster in the Rue 
Mouff'etard. 

The stranger accosted the j'oung artist with the smile of an honest man, 
which is perhaps the best recommendation one can have, in any city, or in any 
latitude. 

" Sir," said the Englishman, " will you be kind enough to listen to me with 
indulgence, and not laugh too much at my simphcity. Sir, I am an honest 
English clergyman, and had never quitted my village, until, urged by an unfor- 
tunate curiosity, I crossed the strait expressly and solely to see Paris. I arrived 
yesterday evening, and was taken to a hotel where I passed the night. This 
morning, in my enthusiasm, and my desire to see everything, I left my hotel, 
without remembering that I must return there this evening ; so that I am lost, 
hungry, and . . . ." 

" Sir," said the architect to the Englishman, "the case is an awkward one. 
Let us begin by breakfast." 

And they entered a cafe. 

While breakfasting, the young man said to the Englishman, "Well, sir! have 



GRECIAN TEMPLES AT THE JARDIN DES PLANTES. 109 

you not at least some indications by the help of which we can discover between 
us this street and this hotel?" 

"Sir," said the Englishman, with a strange look of assurance, "that is just 
what I was about to tell you, when you offered me breakfast so apropos. I am 
not as utterly lost as you may perhaps think me ; for now I remember perfectly 
that the house where I passed the night is near a kind of Grecian temple, which 
I saw shining in the moon's light ; you know, sir, large white columns mingled 
with flights of steps, the whole being surmounted by long stove funnels, which, 
to tell you the truth, appeared to me but little Athenian." 

At these words the young artist who thoroughly understood all the mysteries 
and all the secrets of our architecture, burst into a long fit of laughing. 

"What!" said he to the amazed Englishman, have you no other indications 
than that? Do you not know whether there was a butcher or a perfumer in 
your street? You are no nearer your mark, sir!" 

"Sir," said the Englishman, looking somewhat piqued, "does it so happen in 
your country that there are fewer butchers' shops than Grecian temples?" 

" Exactly so, sir. In Paris we know the number of our butchers' stalls ; 
there are only three hundred ; but we do not know the number of our Grecian 
temples. But stop, said he, you and I will soon try the truth of this; and we 
have not much time left for visiting all our Grecian temples." 

And they immediately set about seeking for this hotel situated at the corner 
of a Grecian temple. 

They were then not far from the Theatre Italien, which is certainly a Grecian 
temple, with white columns surmounted by magnificent stove funnels. 

"Is that your temple ?" said he to the Englishman. 

"That's my temple !" answered he, joyfully. 

But alas ! if he had recognised his temple he could not find his hotel. 

" I told you so!" cried the triumphant artist. 

When they had made the entire tour of the Theatre Italien, and of these 
columns, the spaces between which are filled with joinery and windows, so useful 
are columns under our beautiful Grecian sky. 

"Do not be discouraged, sir," said the young man, "there is close by another 
Grecian temple." 

And turning to the right they went to the Madeleine. 

"Here is my Grecian temple!" said the Englishman, with some uneasiness. 

"I am afraid this is not your Grecian temple," replied the artist; "it is a 
catholic church, sir." 

" Yon are right," said the Englishmen, when he had looked on both sides for 
his hotel, " this is not my Grecian temple." 

" Shall we take a cabriolet?" replied his companion, "for we have so many 
Grecian temples to visit !" 

They mounted a cabriolet. By this time the Englishman felt rather confused. 

The architect, for an instant undecided to what Grecian temple to take the 
stranger, began to remember that there was a hotel of Windsor or of London, 
of the Prince Regent, or some other national hotel, not far from the Chamber of 
Deputies, and so he led William to the chamber. 

" Sir," said he, " this is a magnificent Grecian temple ! look at the columns ! 
look at the flights of steps! look at the stove funnels!" 

"You are right," said the Englishman. "And stop, here is my hotel." 

But at this hotel de Windsor they did not recognise the Englishman. 

" We must look for another Grecian temple," said Ernest (our artist's 
name was Ernest). 

Ernest, who, in his capacity of a man of merit and talent, had a chimney to 
rebuild in the Rue de I'Odeon, took his companion to the Odeon. 

" Here," said he to the unfortunate William, " is another magnificent Gre- 
cian temple, ornamented with magnificent chimneys. It is a tragedy theatre, 
sir, and thei-e is no lack of hotels in this neighborhood." 

But the Englishman recognised neither his hotel nor his Grecian temple. 

However Ernest remembered that there was at the Jardin des Plantes a master- 
mason who patronised him, and had made an appointment with him about some 



110 GRECIAN TEMPLES IN PERE LA CHAISE — THE PALAIg ROTAL. 

work ; so he took the stranger to the Jardin des Plantes, where the master-ma- 
son was about to build several Grecian temples ; Grecian temples for the pan- 
thers, Grecian temples for the crows, Grecian temples for the monkeys, Grecian 
temples for the elephant and the giraffe. 

" Master," said Ernest to the master-mason, "here is an Englishman who has 
lost himself from the neighborhood of a Grecian temple, and who can not find 
his hotel; we have already seen several Athenian houses, and we come to ask 
you if you can tell us of some others; for monsieur must find his hotel again 
by the aid of these temples." 

" My son," said the mason to Ernest, " was I not right in telling you that 
Grecian temples were good for something, and that there was nothing but 
columns in architecture? See in what trouble this good Englishman would be, 
if he had not remarked this Grecian temple! Thanks to the white columns and 
the chimneys he will finish by finding his hotel, sooner or later ; he has only to 
look for it." 

" And that is exactly what we have been doing ever since the morning," said 
Ernest. 

" The Grecian temple," replied the mason, "is the honor of the French city; 
we shall never have columns enough in Paris. Have you seen the pretty little 
Grecian-temple guard-houses that I built for the national guard. They are so 
many Grecian temples raised to the god Mars. Have you seen the Grecian- 
temple tombs that we erected in Pere la Chaise? What Grecian temples ! 
Would you not say that they were the tombs of the sages of Greece ? I am 
the Phidias of the Pere la Chaise, I am the Vitruvius of the national guard ! 
Thus, since this Englishman has noticed our beautiful colonnades, we must not 
abandon him in his trouble. Do you happen to have taken him to the Pan- 
theon ?" 

" The Pantheon is not a Grecian temple," cried Ernest. 

"It has beautiful columns all the same," replied the mason "have 

you taken him to the Ecole de Medecine !" 

"The Ecole de Medecine is not a Grecian temple," said Ernest. 

" Jt has beautiful columns, nevertheless," said the master-mason. 

" Let us resume our route," said Ernest to the Englishman. 

And they went to the other extremity of the city, to Notre Dame de Lorette, 
then to the barrier de Monceaux, a true Grecian temple raised to the god Oc- 
troi. Why not ? There was at Rome a temple raised to the god Crepitus. 

"Stop," said the young architect to the Englishman "there are in Paris forty- 
four barriers with Grecian columns, with variations ; they are all the same 
columns, straight, tortuous, or fluted, but always Grecian. You do not wish me 
to take you to these forty-four barriers, I suppose ?" 

" My friend," said the Englishman, sighing, " My Grecian temple is much 
larger than this Grecian temple, which has only one little chimney. You see 
ine quite puzzled, and very unhappy !" 

But if the Englishman was unhappy, Ernest on his part began to be impa- 
tient. Where should he find this Grecian temple, and this colonnade descend- 
ed in a direct line from the Portico or the Parthenon ? 

" Shall we dine in the palais-royal ?" said the young man to William. 

They went to dine in the palais-royal. 

" Here are columns!" said Ernest to the Englishman. 

While dining, they heard people talking of M. Berryer, who is the column 
of the bar; M. de Lamartine, the column of the library; Mile. Fanny Ellsler 
and Mile. Taglioni, the two Ionic columns of the opera ; Mile. Mars, the col- 
umn of the Theatre Francais ; Meyerbeer and Rossini, the two columns of 
music ; and a crowd of other columns, parliamentary, eloquent, nervous, and 
governmental, enough to make a Grecian temple that would reach from Paris 
to St..Petersburgh. 

" Here are columns enough," said Ernest. 

When they had dined, they went for coffee to the Cafe des Milles-Colonnes. 
The Englishman could bear it no longer. 

" Sir," said Ernest to him, " shall we go to the opera? That is a Grecian 



William's opinion of paris — the place de la bastille. Ill 

temple, at least; it has several staircases, many columns, and above all, many 
chimneys. Let us go there." 

" But at the opera I shall not find my hotel," said the Englishman. 

*' At the opera," replied Ernest, "you will find many Grecian temples." 

In going to the opera, they crossed the Rue Richelieu. 

" Here is a temple half Grecian," said Ernest, as he pointed out the square 
columns of the Theatre Francais. 

They passed before an overthrown building, pulled down only the day before. 

" Stop, sir," said Ernest, " there was formerly on this spot, a magnificent 
Grecian temple : it was an expiatory monument for the Duke de Berri, so un- 
worthily assassinated, and whom the revolution of July has deprived of his mon- 
ument, just as it has suppressed the celebration of the twelfth of January, in 
memory of Louis XVL, the martyr king." 

However, it was late, the moon had risen. In passing the corner of the Rue 
Richelieu ; * 

" I have it !" cried Ernest, transported with joy. 

And he led him to the Place de la Bourse, just opposite the Theatre Vaudeville. 

"There is a Grecian temple!" said Ernest. 

" My Grecian temple was much larger," replied the Englishman. 

" In that case turn round," said Ernest. 

The Englishman wheeled about. Oh joy! he was before that Grecian tem- 
ple called the Bourse. 

" This time, it is my Grecian temple," said the Englishman. And he at once 
entered his hotel. 

When he returned to his village, William was asked : " What do you think 
of Paris?" 

" Paris," said he, "is an assemblage of shops and Grecian temples." 

This story of the Grecian temple is not so ironical as might be supposed. 
Paris is in fact covered with these colonnades, which are only suited for Italy, 
where the- sky is so beautifully blue, and the air so mild, and where the sua 
sheds so soft a lustre. 

But to return to our former subject. Every ten years, a new quarter rises in 
the midst of the city ; new streets proudly advance in a straight line through 
gardens which they cut in two, and through the oldest hotels, which they over- 
throw. All the elevations of the city, even those least accessible, have been thus 
violently conquered. With much more reason, the site of the Bastille has un- 
dergone the most formidable changes. ' Of this Bastille, the terror of the guilty, 
and above all, the terror of the democracy, nothing has remained, except the re- 
membrance. All its criminal stones have been dispersed here and there, and at the 
present moment, not the smallest chip can be found. Upon all this annihilation 
of strength and power, an elephant was first raised, which was to have remained 
there as a witness of the great conquests of 1792; the elephant unfinished, re- 
mains in a corner of the place, where no one looks at it, even to insult it. To 
make amends, they have erected here, a column in brass, to the memory of the 
heroes of July. So that at each of its two extremities, this immense boulevard 
boasts, there, of the column Vendome, here, of the column of July. But 
what a difference between the two monuments ! The noblest bronze proudly 
rises in the Place Vendome ; composed in the first instance of cannon taken 
from the enemy. The whole monument is loaded from top to bottom, with an 
infinite succession of ornaments, emblems, and battles, bas-reliefs in honor of 
the many armies, who died in aspiring after universal dominion ; and at the sum- 
mit of this gigantic bronze, stands erect, the popular statue of the Emperor Na- 
poleon. At the Place de la Bastille, on the contrary, the column, instead of 
being bronze, is brass, and is composed of a succession of ornaments, cast be- 
forehand, and piled one upon the other; the sculptor had nothing to do with 
this erection by contract : but such is the power of anything large in architec- 
ture, that this column, if looked at as a whole, produces a powerful effect. You 
might call it a boundary, placed between the faubourg Saint Antoine and Paris. 
The faubourg Saint Antoine ! An awful word, and one which has resounded 
cruelly, in the annals of this people. From this street — extending so far, the 



112 THE FAUBOURG SAINT ANTOINE — THE ENVIRONS OF PARIS. 

head of which reaches to the dungeons of Vincennes, while its feet used for- 
merly to touch the ditches of the Bastille — darted every day that frightful mul- 
titude, which excited, after its own fashion, the vows, the fears, and the hopes of 
the nation of 1793. When it was said, in the city, " Here is the faubourg !" there 
was a sudden silence; people hardly dared to speak, or breathe; they waited for 
what was coming. Here is the faubourg ! Fear was at its height; and on the 
road, what cries of the dying ; how many innocent persons slaughtered, how 
many heads carried on the ends of sanguinary pikes, what denunciations for the 
scaffold on the morrow! The faubourg Saint Antoine was the lava, the fire, and 
the ashes of that burning volcano, which the breath of Bonaparte alone could 
extinguish. But what a surprise! Of this uproar of former days, nothing now 
is to be perceived, neither noise, nor tumults, nor cries from the dying; a long 
beautiful street filled with workmen at their labor, carriages passing, soldiers re- 
turning from the dungeon of Vincennes, the prison which Mirabeau left, to 
found' a new liberty, upon the wreck of the throne ; this is all that remains of 
the faubourg Saint Antoine. Happy are those people who have seen thus re- 
duced to silence and repose, the most active and the most restless crater, of past 
and future revolutions ? 

Here we will stop in our journey through the boulevards ; to go farther, would 
be to retrace our steps, and to return to the Jardin des Plantes and the Champ 
de Mars, and it seems to us, that you ought already to have a good idea of this 
magnificent belt, more rich and more varied than the belt of Venus. 



CHAPTER XXXni. 

THE ENVIRONS OF PARIS. 



Most certainly that tourist would not have completely attained his object, who 
had not visited some of the environs with which Paris surrounds itself, in order 
to have a little air, and space, and sun. We arrived here, through the barrier 
de I'Etoile, and could judge at once of the magnificence, the eclat, and the vari- 
ety, of the beautiful houses concealed in their gardens ; but if you wish to es- 
timate justly the luxury and diversity of the neighborhood of a great city, 
you must not fail to visit, if not all, at least some, of the beautiful Parisian 
villages. When at Neuilly, do not let us omit to follow the course of the river, 
as far as the Chateau de Saint Cloud, one of the masterpieces of Le Notre, gar- 
dener to Louis XIV. A double terrace condl^cts you to this rich house, which 
stands at once upon the heights of Bellevue and the woods of Ville d'Avray. 
There, Charles X. was staying when the revolution of July began to mutter ; 
there, was feted, for the last time in the kingdom of his fathers, the young Duke 
of Bordeaux, Henry of France. In this park, the oldest ti-ees, the most admi- 
rably-placed waters, the mountain, the refreshing breezes, the noise and motion 
of the railroad, have a powerful effect upon the mind of the traveller and the 
artist. Approach gently the terrace which extends in front of the chateau, by 
the side of the marble vase, and the stone seat ; and look at this spot with re- 
spect, for it was here that the queen of France, Marie Antoinette — conquered at 
last by that irresistible force which drew her into the abyss — came at midnight, 
to wait for the Count de Mirabeau, that fiery tribune of the people, whom the 
queen wished to make a tribune of the court. A great drama was performed 
upon this stone seat, by the queen of France and the unruly democrat. Here, 
conquered royalty yielded its arms to triumphant popularity. Here, the man so 
long a prisoner in the dungeon of Vincennes, brought to the feet of the queen 
of France the pardon for which she asked. ... But, alas ! it was too late. 
Mirabeau himself was outstripped by the revolution which he had first urged 
onward ; he was lost, as well as the king and queen of France, and poison awaited 
him on Ms return. 



THE CHATEAUX DE BELLEVUE AND DE SAINT GERMAIN. 113 

A little higher, and on the opposite side of the mountain, the Chateau de 
Bellevue formerly aro^e in all its magnificence. There lived, in the exercise 
of the most humble virtues, the kind princesses of the blood royai, who had 
scarcely time to fly. Immediately their chateau was pillaged ; the walls were 
demolished and sold by auction ; the park, which was immense, was divided 
into a hundred thousand little pieces ; and in each of these slips of land, the Pa- 
risian considered himself only too liappy to build a small house, composed of 
two rooms on the ground floor, the kitchen and the parlor, and two bedrooms on 
the first floor ; add a garden of some few feet behind the house, and a little grass 
plot in front, and you will have a Parisian as happy as a king. There he lives 
and reigns. He annually plants one or two rose-trees ; he owns a cherry-tree, 
which, each year, promises to bear fruit the next. A modest house ! but what 
does that signify ? He has at his feet the most brilliant panorama in the world ; 
behind his house, there are the immense woods which lead to Versailles, to those 
gardens saved by a miracle, to that palace which Louis Philippe has preserved 
from ruin, to the fresh turf, and the fountains, and to the shore of that piece of 
water which gently glides within the flowery limits of the Petit Trianon. 

But we will not go so far as Versailles ; Versailles alone would form the 
subject of a book. Two railroads have given the palace of Louis XIV. to 
the Parisians, and made it a rendezvous for walking and amusement. On 
this same river Seine, is built the Chateau de Saint Germain, the abode of 
Louis XIII. — a noble forest, a dehghtful terrace, from the top of which you 
can see, lying at your feet, the immense city of Paris. The Chateau de 
Saint Germain has become a prison for soldiers. The pavilion in which 
Henry IV. was born, is inhabited by a restaurateur. The Seine flows to a 
distance, passing before the Chateau de Maisons, which still remembers Vol- 
taire. There, Voltaire was writing Zaire when the chateau took fire. M. 
Lafitte now owns the house. 

On each side of the city you will find beautiful spots, filled in summer 
with old shades, limpid waters, and poetical remembrances. The valley of 
Montmorency, for instance, is the delight, the verdant and animated fete of 
the Parisians. Scarcely has the sun pierced the cloud of the month of May, 
before this word, Montmorency — forgotten for six months — suddenly presents 
itself to every young heart, and rises to every young lip ! Montmorency ! 
Parisian emigration has nothing more beautiful, more animated, or more lively. 
People repair there on Sunday, by every means known and ^^nknown ; in hack- 
ney coaches, in carriages, in carts ; and hardly have you touched the happy 
soil, before cries of joy are heard on every side. The gravest young men, the 
best behaved and most unaflfected girls, are at once seized with this sweet 
folly, which consists in shouting, running, cHmbing, lying upon the grass, 
mounting on horseback, and galloping through this hilly and venerable for- 
est. Montmorency ! It was J. J. Rousseau who discovered this happy val- 
ley ; it was he who first described it. Before the Confessions, the Parisian 
never suspected that there was so near him a forest of Montmorency. Thus, 
the name of J. J. Rousseau is in every mouth. The only serious moment 
in a day passed here, is that in which you visit the house where he lived, 
and the garden where he so often walked. A modest house, and a small 
garden ! but, however, if you are at aU acquainted with his clear, lively, and 
true descriptions, you will find here, the aiithor of the Emile and the Heloise. 
More than one piece of furniture made of deal, ornaments the house — fur- 
niture without value in itself, but very precious if you remember the noble 
pages which have been written upon this desk of white wood ! On leaving the 
house, when the visiter has recovered as far as possible from the feelings 
always inspired by so great a name, the natural beauty of this sweet place 
reassumes all its empire ; then there is joy, laughing, folly, and, . . . must 
it be told ! kisses, which must sometimes disturb the repose of the philoso- 
pher, if he says to himself from the depth of his tomb, " It was I, never- 
theless, who invited them to these shades which they now so abuse !" 

Montmorency is not far from Saint Denis, which is the tomb of the kings of 
France. The cathedral is the wonder of Gothic times. This terrible arrow, 

8 



114 MONTMORENCY — THE VALLEE AUX LOUFS. 

which incessantly presents to the kings of France the memento mori, sufficed to 
drive Louis XIV. from the Chateau de Saint Germain ! Close to Saint Denis, 
you will find the Island of Saint Denis — a spot which is only known among the 
most thorough Parisians — a concealed, solitary island, around which all is si-- 
lence. There, we saw a very singular man ; he does not own a foot of land 
under the sun, and nevertheless he chose to have a house to himself. For 
these reasons he has built himself a large boat ; in this boat he has all the rooms 
he needs — a saloon, a dining-room, a bed-room, a bath-room, a cellar, a barn, 
and even a pretty little garden upon the stern. He has furnished the different 
rooms with taste, and thus he can say, " My house !" It is in fact a happy 
home; he can place it wherever he likes; in the sun in the winter, in the 
shade during the summer. If his neighbor on the right shore displeases or 
incommodes him, our man moves his dwelling, and moors off the left shore. 
His house is at once a house, a boat, a carriage, and a kingdom. For ten years 
has this amphibious philosopher lived thus — without anxiety, without regretting 
the earth, in profound peace with himself and others, yielding himself with equal 
calmness and resignation to the current of life and the current of the water. 

On the side opposite to Montmorency, and through another gate of the city, 
you have the Vallee aux Lowps, of which we have already spoken. M. de Cha- 
teaubriand discovered the Vallee aux Loups, just as J. J. Rousseau invented 
the valley of Montmorency. M. de Chateaubriand's valley is full of shade, si- 
lence, and profound calm. JNothing is seen there but the sky and the verdure, 
nothing is heard but the song of birds ; the sun scarcely penetrates there, and 
never entirely enters. The first Christians, in their days of retreat, did not find 
more silence, more freshness, or more complete solitude. But, if you love soli- 
tude, why do you not go a httle further below, into the Vallee de Chevreuse ? 
It is the cradle of Jansenism, it is the Port Royal des Champs. Here have 
Hved, and grown, and suffered, those strict Christians, those excellent orators, 
those strong wills, Avho pushed, to so great an extent, self-denial and strength, 
charity and hope. This time, you may wait in vain for the Parisian and his 
noisy joys ; he does not appear in these latitudes. He respects the memory of 
the author of the Martyrs ; he turns pale at the very name of the author of the 
Provinciates and the Pensees, The Parisian has respected these noble paths, 
these holy shades, these austere remembrances. In the Vallee de Chevreuse, 
the Duke de Luynes, a learned antiquarian, one of the severe moralists of for- 
mer days, wished to restore its original glory to his paternal chateau, and he 
has had no difficulty in succeeding. Is it not a strange anachronism that it was 
necessary to wait for a Voltairian age, to restore — by eloquence and the fine 
arts, by the care of the Duke de Luynes, and by the learned labors of M. de St. 
Beuve — its ancient glory, and its merited praise, to the learned Port Royal des 
Champs ? 

He who has not seen the Pavilion de Luciennes — placed on the summit of its 
mountain, as if it were seeking in the modern world a woman pretty and infamous 
enough to replace in this profane retreat Madame Du Barry herself— does not 
know what an absolute king can do, when, worn out by excesses of every kind, he 
has reached his last love. 

Of the great houses of former days, under Louis XIV. and Louis XV., very 
few are now standing ; it is with difficulty that you can trace the site and some 
few outlines of what formerly existed. The houses which the black band have 
not demolished they have sold to manufacturers and dealers. The estate of 
Fouquet, the Chateau de Vaux, celebrated by La Fontaine, has become a farm; 
the Chateau de Brunay, which the late king, Louis XVIII. — when he was only 
the brother of a king — had much difficulty in buying, is now owned by the direc- 
tor of a rope-dancing theatre. Worse still — oh what ingratitude ! — the beloved 
house of the First Consul Bonaparte, the fresh garden where he passed such hap- 
py days, that verdant and delightful nest of his high fortune, the MalmaisQn — this 
has been treated like all other great dwellings ; it has been broken, spoilt, sold 
piecemeal ; and among so many people whose fortune the emperor had made, 
among so many who have made hirn their idol, not one was to be found who 
would pay to his master the last duty of tearing his house from the exposure of 



MALMAISON — CHATEAU DE ROSNT — DEPARTURE FROM PARIS. 115 

advertisements, and the multiplied chances of the auction ! Happy was it for 
the Malmaison that Queen Christina of Spain, the conquered queen, the exiled 
regent, was in need of a foot of ground on which to spend the season, or it 
would have been now demolished, and even thy memory would not have saved 
it, thou good and sweet sovereign, Josephine, emperess and queen, whom the 
people so much loved, and whose chateau they would have bought, if the people 
ever bought chateaux ! 

Let them forget those who are dead, if they will ; but to neglect those who 
live, those who can know the respect which they carry into their exile — this is 
what can scarcely be believed, and yet it must be believed : for in passing before 
the Chateau de K-osny, even the dwelling of the Dutchess de Berri has been de- 
molished. Speculation has laid its impious hands upon the noble dwelling, in 
which French wit had displayed all its grace ; speculation, without respect for 
" the good dutchess," as the poor called her, has cut up her forest, divided her 
garden, demolished the two wings of her castle, and sold and resold, piece by 
piece, this royal house, which spread around it so many benefits and so many 
alms. This is a crime committed but yesterday ; and yet the French of 1842 
cry out that people have not respected past times, that they have destroyed their 
middle age, that the tower of Saint Jacques la Boucherie is menaced with 
ruin, and that the church of Saint Germain I'Auxerrois has not been restored in 

all its purity ! Hypocrites ! begin, then, by saving the house of the 

Emperor Napoleon, if you love glory ; and if you love goodness, perfect grace, 
wit, courage, and misfortune, then save the house of the Dutchess de Berri ; 
after which we will deplore together, and at our ease, the sad loss of the monu- 
ments of Chilperic or of Clovis. 

What can not be destroyed, and what can not be overthrown, is the verdure 
of the trees, the murmur of the waters, the brilliancy of the landscape, which 
man can sometimes spoil, but never so completely, but what its natural beauties 
will resume their rights on the first day of spring and sunshine. 



CHAPTER XXXTV. 

DEPARTURE FROM PARIS. 



The more I penetreted into some of the mysteries of this wonderful city, the 
more I found that the study of Paris was an attractive and picturesque one, but 
at the same time so long, that it would require the lifetime of a man thoroughly 
to enter into it, and I had only a few days to devote to this purpose. Thus, Paris, 
in spite of all my efforts, seemed to me like a vision disappearing and vanishing 
in the distance. But I could not leave it without familiarizing myself with that 
most important personage in French society, the Parisian citizen. 

It was a Parisian friend, a man of much observation, who acquainted me with 
this mystery, which I was very anxious to elucidate before my departure. 

" Sir," said he to me, " you wish to know what the Paris citizen really is ; I 
understand your question, and consider it an excellent one, but it is very diffi- 
cult to give you an answer ; in the midst of this immense population which 
crowd our streets, jostle each other upon the footways, and are heaped in the 
cells so skilfully distributed through our new houses, it becomes difficult to find 
the primitive race, to recognise the features of the indigenous family. Where, 
I pray you, shall we find the classical and traditional inhabitant of the great city ? 
Lost among such a number of parasitical beings, who have been transplanted 
into our midst by the wish to grow and to prosper. While he vegetates un- 
known, his reputation is loaded with all the absurdities which the eighty-three 
departments send him. Let us draw him quickly from the crowd, restore to 
him his own form and color, and renew the original and natural print, which 
time has modified, without destroying. For this purpose, we must neither seek 



116 THE BOURGEOIS THE CITIZEN'S MARRIAGE HIS CHIXiDREN. 

too high, nor dive too low. It is in the middle rank that we shall always find 
him, holding cut his hand to those beneath ; il" he rises, he degenerates. 

The Paris citizen is more than forty years old. Before that age the guardian- 
ship of his parents, under whose eyes he lived, the smallness of his income, the 
long bondage of education, of apprenticeship, and of probationship of every 
kind, then the continual care and the daily apprehension with respect to an es- 
tablishment, still very uncertain ; prevent that confidence in one's self, that free- 
dom of action which a person needs to enable him to take his rank among men 
of business. 

Besides it is absolutely necessary for the Paris citizen — and happily for him it 
is a pleasure — that he should be able to relate to his family, his friends, and his 
protegees, all that has happened for thirty years at least, not only in his imme- 
diate neighborhood, but within the walls of Paris, which form his world, and 
beyond which he sees only allied countries or commercial connexions. If he 
has nothing to say about the taking of the Bastille, or the days of fructidor, 
-thermidor, and vendemaire, he has no weight, no authority ; and as, in the agita- 
tion of business which divides his time with sleep, the citizen reads but little, 
he must have lived, his head must be furnished with facts from the emotions of 
every day, he must have laid by a provision of events while spending his years- 
Conclusion ; the Paris citizen is, at least, fifty years old. He who can tell of 
the fetes given in 1770 at the marriage of the dauphin, and the accidents which 
so infallibly prophes'ied the misfortunes of Louis XVI., is a citizen of note, and 
is venerated by the social circle, to the distance of three houses. 

The Paris citizen is of a middle stature, and decidedly stout. His counte- 
nance usually wears a merry expression, but with something also of dignity in 
it. He is well shaved and suitable dressed. His clothes are large, and made 
of good materials, without any affectation of the forms which fashion borrows 
from caprice. Ignorant painters always give him an umbrella, it is one of the 
grossest prejudices, that spite and party spirit every adopted. He has a cane to 
support him, to drive away the dogs, and threaten the troublesome boys. But 
he is not afraid of bad weather ; if it rains he will take a coach ; and he an- 
nounces the fact with a satisfied look. You must have heard a citizen of Paris 
say, as he leaves home, "If it rains I will take a coach," to understand what 
contentment and security the progress of public accommodation can put into 
the heart of a man who has the means of procuring it. 

The citizen is married and has children. His wife never was beautiful, her 
features wanted regularity, but it was agreed to call her pretty. People still 
speak of the effect which she produced upon the curious crowd, the day she 
alighted from a remise before the little door of the church Saint Roch. She 
was then slighter in appearance ; he was young, active, spruce, and frizzled. It 
was a fine wedding; if you had but seen the golden cross and the armchairs of 
crimson velvet ! There was also a brilliant marriage at Grignon's which was 
then entered by a large court. Very few Sundays pass on which the husband 
does not introduce into the conversation some remembrance of this happy day, 
and always with renewed tenderness for her whom he constantly congratulates 
himself upon having married ; for he respects his wife naturally, from instinct ; 
the most intense study could not have taught him better. He always finds her 
at home when he returns, or if he is obliged to wait for her, she is sure to come 
back laden with little commissions, among which there is something for him. 
She pours out his tisan when he has a cold, she is silent when he speaks. More 
than this, she is not only the mother of his children, she is also his adviser in 
matters of moment, his companion, his book-keeper; he does nothing without 
her advice, she knows the names of his correspondents and his debtors. When 
he is in a merry humor he calls her his minister of the interior, and if he is un- 
certain about the orthography of a word he questions her, for she is learned, she 
was brought up at school. 

But we must speak of his children. I do not know the name of his daughter, 
there are so many pretty ones in the list of novels. She has come from school, 
she has a piano, she draws, she has learned all that it will be necessary to for- 
get when she returns home to continue the simple obscure life of her mother. 



THE citizen's IDEA OF ORDER HIS LOVE FOR LIBERTT- 117 

His son is called Emile, so named from respect to the memory of J. J. Rous- 
seau. There are but few families in Paris where you will not find an Emile, 
who has been put out to nurse, led about by a bonne, and confided — the two 
hundred and twentieth pupil — to a college education. Emile works hard, and 
shows much intelligence. It is upon him that they reckon to increase the rep- 
utation of the college at its annual exhibition. Thus the young man is coaxed 
and caressed by his masters. From all this the citizen derives fresh happiness. 
He joyfully recognises a new self in the inheritor of his name. He allows him 
to chatter, he admires his pedantic little prattling, he is proud that he can not 
understand him. He never remembers his authority until the rash scholar ven- 
tures upon the ground of pohtics ; for the rogue has a fancy for the republicans. 
He reads in secret the revolutionary newspapers, as we children of the Empire 
read the novels of Pigault-Lebrun. Besides, this is the favorable moment for 
paternal erudition, for the history of terror. The storm passed, his future life 
is discussed. Since he shows wit, he must be made an auctioneer ; should he 
manifest talent, he must be a solicitor ; for each generation wishes to rise one 
step, and this is why the top of the ladder is so full. 

I have touched upon the political opinions of the citizen ; this is the most 
important development of his character. In the first place he loves order ; he 
would derange everything to secure order ; and order with him is the regular 
and easy circulation of carriages or pedestrians in the streets ; it is the shops 
displaying their treasures, and in the evening shedding upon the pavement the 
reflection of the gas which illuminates them. Provided he is not stopped on his 
road by any other groups than those who surround the singers, or who contem- 
plate the dying agonies of a dog that has been run over; provided his ear is not 
struck by the dull noise of crowds rushing upon each other ; provided he does 
not fear to see a lamp fall at his feet ; if he does not hear the noise of broken 
windows, or the sinister sound of shutters being suddenly closed, the recall at 
an unseasonable hour, or the hurried steps of horses, he is satisfied ; he has all 
he needs. Leave him this material tranquillity, and then, you who interest 
yourselves in public affairs, you who wish to engage him on your side, you who 
need his vote, his signature to a petition, or his voice in a decision, may go to 
him without fear. Argue, attack, slander ; try as boldly as you choose, to de- 
molish principles, or ruin reputations. He will listen to you without anger. If 
your phrase is well turned, he will adopt it for his own, for he likes to excite at- 
tention. If your epigram is pointed, he will entertain his guests with it, for he 
always has a word to make them laugh. If you tell him a piece of news, he 
will bet upon your statement, for he believes anything that is in print. You 
need not fear that he will recognise disorder in a black coat, speaking in well- 
turned periods, and affecting a thoughtful look ; he is more likely to take it for 
one of the mayor's assistants. The disorder which he knows and dreads, and 
for which he descends into the street with his gun, has naked arms and a hoarse 
voice, forces shops, and throws stones at the municipal guard. 

And then the Paris citizen prizes his liberty ; it is his property, his conquest, 
his faith. The three syllables which compose this word, bring a smile to his 
lips, and cause him immediately to raise his head. If you tell him, that a man 
does not wish for liberty, he will reply, without hesitation, that he must be im- 
prisoned. To preserve this precious boon, he will voluntarily submit to any 
shackle, to any privations, to any sacrifice. Persuade him that his liberty is 
threatened, and he will immediately abandon his easy, regular life, his business, 
and his family. He will submit to the hardest labor, the captivity of the 
guard-house, and the tyranny of the watch-word. He will be the first to de- 
mand that the barriers should be closed, houses searched, arid suspected per- 
sons aiTested. He knows that liberty does not defend itself alone, that it needs 
the activity of the police, aided by an experienced judge, and corrective laws 
which strike quickly, powerfully, and to a great distance. For liberty he makes 
himself a gendarme, a constable, anything but an informer. For remember, he 
has the greatest horror of espionage ! In his blindest and most eager devoted- 
ness, he would let a Jesuit escape, that he might run after a spy. 

Through all the revolutions, which have changed so often the name of his 



118 THE ELECTION THE CITIZEN A NATIONAL GUARD. 

Street, the scarf of his municipal officer, the colors of the flag floating upon the 
dome of the Horloge, where he goes to learn the exact time, the cockade of 
the postman, and the sign of the tobacco-seller, he has yet presei-ved some re- 
spect for authority. But his embarrassment is great, if some morning his news- 
paper contains an article against the government — his newspaper which he so 
much likes, which reckons him among its oldest readers, and to which he sends 
his patriotic subscription ! This causes a whole day of uncertainty and disqui- 
etude : but, at last, he thinks, that the authorities may have been deceived; this 
article in the newspaper, will no doubt enlighten them, and on the faith of this 
hope he goes to sleep, reconciled with the ministers, and the prefect of police, 
who will be deposed to-morrow. 

The Paris citizen is an elector ; he was so before the passing of the last law, 
as he takes care to tell you. When the college of his arrondissement is sum- 
moned, he seems to have grown a foot taller ; there is — not pride, but — mistrust 
in his look. Every one who comes near him, seems to him to wish for his vote. 
But he has raised an impassable barrier round his conscience. Against that are 
broken all the recommendations of friendship, and all the seductions of party. He 
reads attentively the profession and faith of each candidate. He takes notes of 
their sentiments and promises, in order to compare them and make his choice. 
Then he arranges these labelled and numbered notes in order. When the day 
of election approaches, he shuts himself up in his private room, for once with- 
out his wife. He takes out these papers, one after the other, and reads : " No 
1. M. Pierre. Independence of position, fortune honorably acquired, ardent 
zeal for public liberty, love of order, engagement not to accept any paid office." 
" No. 2. M. Paul. Fortune honorable acquired, independence of position, 
engagement not to accept any paid office, love of order, ardent zeal for public 
liberty." And so he continues, down to No. 13, which is the last. — without any 
other change, than the position of the interverted words ; just as was the case 
with M. Jourdain's declaration of love. He repairs to the preparatory meeting, 
and returns from it, still more undecided than he was when he went. For all 
these political integrities — each of which presented itself to him, so compact, so 
full, and so entire — have been terribly disarranged. At last, the day arrived, he 
returns home satisfied ; he has sustained his resolution to the end, he has acted 
according to his conscience, he has furnished a split vote to the scrutiny. 

The Paris citizen is a juryman; this is another act of his political religion; 
he prepares himself for it, by reading for a fortnight, the Gazette des Trihunaux. 
Look at him, on his seat, opposite the accused. The first day he suspects the 
public minister, and the president ; he leans upon his elbows, that he may not 
lose one of the avocat's words ; he compassionates thieves, he acquits, at first 
sight, all those unhappy beings whom crime has hurried into want. The next 
day, he is less tender, less easily moved. The last day he has become a judge, 
and a more rigorous one than those whose business it is, and who are equally 
inured to crime and distress. On returning home, he buys a safety-bolt and 
dismisses his servant. With political offences, it is quite a different thing. At 
first, he fancies all society shaken, by the fury of a writer, or the rashness of an 
artist : then he gets accustomed to it, and at last is amused with it. At the end 
of the session, he carries off the proscribed caricature, under his arm, to hang 
it up in the dining-room, by the side of the seat of war. 

The Paris citizen is a national guard, but he is not satisfied with being a sim- 
ple soldier, he must have some rank. He does not aspire to be a captain ; that 
properly belongs to the neighboring notary; for there still exists, in certain 
quarters, a superstitious respect for notaries. Still less does'he aim at superior 
stations ; in common justice, those belong to men whom the law exempts from 
service, the magistrates and deputies. He is simply a sergeant-major, then — 
this is a middle path between command and obedience. The sergeant-major 
sleeps at home, and that is a great point ; and then, it is so delightful to know 
all his neighbors, to receive their demands, to grant them favors, to listen to their 
excuses, to turn out the refractory. Do not laugh at the sergeant-major, I beg, 
he is a person of importance, he is the churchwarden of the present day. 

Restored to private life, the Paris citizen attends to his business, with activity 



PUBLIC FETES THE THEATRES. 119 

and intelligence ; he brings to it shrewdness enough, not to appear a fool, and to 
show that he is as well acquainted with the subject as the men of Bordeaux'or 
Rouen. For the rest, he is an honest, exact man, of strict integrity. He has 
time also for pleasure, and enjoys, though without extravagance all that the 
stranger comes to seek in his city. Above all, the public fetes have great at- 
tractions for him. There is no important business, no domestic bickering, that 
will prevail against the powerful invitation of a review, a race, a funeral solemni- 
ty, or an exhibition of fireworks. Even proce^ions please him ; the noise, the 
dust, the sun, the mob, the rebuffs of the soldiers, the fluctuations of the crowd, 
advancing and retiring — all this is a delightful subject of conversation and re- 
membrance for the Parisian citizen. And then, how he loves to put an histori- 
cal name upon all these persons, who pass on horseback with epaulets and a 
cordon! I remember a certain procession in the first days of the revolution of 
July, in which fifty different persons were pointed out to me, as General Lafay- 
ette, when he had never, during the whole time, left his armchair. Among 
the multitude, who look at the actors in these solemnities, there are several 
copies of the celebrated men worked off, so that each may have seen them, and 
shown them to his children, who will, one day, tell their posterity of them. 

The Paris citizen also loves the arts ; he has his likeness taken, he is at the 
saloon. Did you see, at the Exposition of 1831 — where new canvass, enriched 
with Gothic frames, covered the old pages of Rubens, by the side of Dela- 
croix's tigers — the portrait of a national guard, wearing over his flaxen wig, a cap 
placed on one side, with a merry, jovial countenance — a portrait which seemed 
to be looking at itself? It was a Paris citizen. Honor to the artist ! he had 
exactly portrayed the original; if I could only have a copy of it, I would tear 
what I am now writing. The pencil would tell you all. 

Do not fear that among his amusements I shall forget the theatres ; although 
they have lost much of their value, since they have begun to load them with 
absurd unknown emotions — emotions too much for his heart, if serious ; and 
outraging his reason, if derisive and foolish. In the first place, do not look for 
him at the Italian Opera ; he has never set foot in it, because, when he pays 
his money, he chooses to hear the words used. He passes the Theatre Fran- 
cais with a sigh, like a man of exquisite taste and cultivated mind. If the Opera 
Comique was not so often closed, it would be his delight : he goes there with 
his family, four times a year. But he consoles himself in the theatres where 
vaudevilles are played. The plot of the pieces is not very good, but at least 
they make you laugh, and he wishes to laugh. The Gymnase rather alarms 
him : its heroes are too wealthy ; you would fancy that the revolution had not 
reached the Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle. There he stops ; for you must no 
longer talk to him of the melodrama, formerly so noble, so touching, so popular, 
the cause of so many tears, when they represented tyrants, princesses carried 
off, noblemen in captivity, vaults, jailers, children, and wonderful deliverances. 
Now, the melodrama annoys him exceedingly, with its rags, its crude maxims, 
and its low familiarities. He leaves that for the jpetites maitresses, and the fish- 
women ; the fops, and the men of the faubourg. 

And this is not merely dislike ; immorality revolts him. He is a moral man, 
and boasts of being one. This would be a reason for suspecting the fact, if the 
claim was not a part of his existence — if it was not one of his titles to be ad- 
mitted into society. It is by this that he compares himself to the highest ranks, 
and finds himself superior. A citizen says, " I have morals," with the same 
feeling of self-esteem and contempt for others, which makes a nobleman say, " I 
have birth ;" a banker, " I have money ;" and a genius, " I have nothing." 

On this subject, do you ask me if the Paris citizen is religious ? Strange 
question ! He was married at the church, and has had his children baptized. 
He even thinks it quite right, that his wife should go every Sunday to mass. 
It is a good example ; and if you press him, he will tell you that there must be 
a religion for the people. 

But I shall weary you with my observations on the Paris citizen. If you seek 
the expression of an ardent, enthusiastic, young, passionate society, capable of 
great efforts in virtue, or great daring in^rime-i-if you want figures boldly drawn, 



120 CONCLUSION. 

those strong determined touches, which you find in an historical painting — j^ou 
must go to some other place, I know not where. Only search in some city of 
which Julius Caesar never spoke, which has not so many revolutions to recount, 
so many names graven one day upon its monuments, and effaced the next ; a 
city, too, where man is not stifled by man, or worn out by constant commotion. 
But if you want a mild, good, honest, simple, generous, unsuspicious, hospita- 
ble man, one of those happy laughing physiognomies, which look so well in a 
family portrait — take the Parisapitizen. Trust him with your fortune, your 
daughter, even your secret. Ask from him a favor which does not delay his 
dinner-hour too long, and you may feel sure of him. Only I advise yoii, if you 
call on him the day after a tumult, to shorten your visit, and not to sit down." 

Thus spake my Parisian friend, with his usual kindness, in answering my in- 
quiries. " Sir," said I to him, " happy are you to be born in the shadow of the 
towers of Notre Dame, the column in the Place Vendome, the colonnade of the 
Louvre ; happy are you, to form a part of this great city, from which spring so 
many noble ideas, in which reside so many admirable passions, and in which is 
to be found so much military glory. Your life is a daily fete, a fete of the eyes, 
of thought, and of poetry, a fete of the highest- and happiest joys of youth. 
Happy Parisian, thoughtless and gay, without enthusiasm, without passions, 
laughing at everything, yes, at glory itself, and who, while laughing, can accom- 
phsh everything — even a revolution !" 



BURGESS, STRINGER, & CO. 

292 BROADWAY, CORNER OF ANN STREET, 

NEW YORK, 

PUBLISHERS, 

AND GENERAL BOOK AND PERIODICAL AGENTS, 
AND UNITED STATES PUBLISHERS' MAIL AGENTS, 

Furnish and transmit by mail, or as otherwise ordered, all the cheap Pub- 
lications, Magazines, and" Periodicals of the day, American and Foreign, at 
the lowest cash prices. Among these are the hooks of their New Series of 

^'RBADlNa FOR THB miUAONf 

Consisting of the choicest works of Science, Art, and Standard Literature ; a 
uniform, stereotype edition. 

All the Works of Shakspere, Walter Scott, Hannah More, Bulwer, Dick- 
ens, Lever, Maxwell, Frederika Bremer, Mrs. Ellis, Eugene Sue, &c., &c. 

All the cheap publications of Harper & Brothers, J. & H. G. Langlev, D. 
Appleton & Co., J. S. Kedfield, J. Winchester, Wilson & Co., Wm. H. Coll- 
yer ; Lea & Blanchard, and Carey & Hart, of Philadelphia ; and all the cheap 
publications of New York, Philadelphia, and Boston. 



AMERICAN PERIODICALS. 

B., S., & Co., are agents for, or can supply regularly at the earliest possi- 
ble date — 

Campbell's Foreign Semi-Monthly 

Magazine, 
Boys & Gtirls' Library (monthly). 



The Knickerbocker (monthly) 

The Democratic Review " 

Hunt's Merchants' Magazine " 



All the re-publications of the Foreign Reviews and Magazines. 



FOREIGN PERIODICALS. 

THE LONDON ILLUMINATED MAGAZINE (monthly), Edited by 
Douglas Jerrold (sole agency), $3 per annum ; THE LONDON ILLUS 
TRATED NEWS ; PICTORIAL TIMES ; PUNCH ; SATIRIST ; BELL'S 
LIFE ; and the principal papers of London, Liverpool, and Dublin, are re- 
ceived on the arrival of every steamer. 



[p^ MAIL-BAGS for Publishers' Packages, in which all pamphlets are 
carried at newspaper postage, over the principal mail-routes of the United 
States, are made up daily, according to the new arrangements of the Depart- 
ment, postage pre-paid ; and all publications ordered will be sent in this 
manner when so directed. 

BURGESS, STRINGER, & CO. 

New York, J844. 



;2!Si3!S§!SiS!St„^ 



READING FOR THE MILLION.' 



BURGESS, STEIIGER, & CO., I 

P 

PUBLISHERS, i 



I GENERAL BOOK AND PERIODICAL AGENTS, | 

a 824 BROADWAY, CORNER OF ANW STREET, » 

I XVEW YORK: i 

i . I 

P Annoiince with mueh satisfaction the publication of an entirely new series of w 

P P 

1 Slegant and Standard Books, 1 



A Selected from the choicest works of American, English, French, G-erman, p 
A and Italian Literature. p 

i i 

^ These Books will be as nearly imiform as possible, in their style and ap- p 

p pearance, will be carefully stereotyped, and got up iu every particular with p 

p the utmost neatness. p 

p P 

^ The Books of this Series will be selected by an able Editor of elegant m 

P taste, and high literary acquirements ; and no work will be published which ^ 

^ is not of the very highest and most unexceptionable character. p 

W This Series will include instructive and amusing books of Science, Art, ^ 

^ History, Voyages, Travels, Biography, &c., &c. ; combining, in the most A 

§ excellent form and maimer, the useful and the agreeable. - A 

^ The Books of this Series, uniform with this number, will be issued, two or % 

M more numbers, each month of the present season. o 

p , m 

P Agents in every part of the Union supplied upon the most favorable terms, m 

m. Five Books of this Series will be sent to any part of the United States, by p 
A mail, or in any manner ordered, for One Dollar, sent postage paid, or m 
A franked, according to the rules of the Department. M 



H 283 85 



^^<^ 





I '^^\^ 




""^s^^^ 










■y\ \W- /\ '°^'y%/-.W/ /%- 



> 








-^...^ /^fe\ \/ ,^^|£o %/ ,^^^. \/ 












/\ 



^ <0 «> * * °' N> V ^JlAj^ <^ aO 















,G^^ \^*'o~,7»-A 

t o 












rrs* <G^ ^o 'o'.i* A ^. 






























NT ^ 



^0 


















HECKMAN 

BINDERY INC. 

i^ JUL 85 

N. MANCHESTER, 
INDIANA 46962 












